第82章

TWO minutes' walk through to Broadway, and she was at her destination.There, on the other side of the way, stood the Gayety Theater, with the offices of Mr.

Clarence Crossley overlooking the intersection of the two streets.Crossley was intrenched in the remotest of a series of rooms, each tenanted by under-staffers of diminishing importance as you drew way from the great man.It was next to impossible to get at him--a cause of much sneering and dissatisfaction in theatrical circles.Crossley, they said, was exclusive, had the swollen head, had forgotten that only a few years before he had been a cheap little ticket-seller grateful for a bow from any actor who had ever had his name up.Crossley insisted that he was not a victim of folie de grandeur, that, on the contrary, he had become less vain as he had risen, where he could see how trivial a thing rising was and how accidental.Said he:

``Why do I shut myself in? Because I'm what I am --a good thing, easy fruit.You say that men a hundred times bigger than I'll ever be don't shut themselves up.You say that Mountain, the biggest financier in the country, sits right out where anybody can go up to him.Yes, but who'd dare go up to him? It's generally known that he's a cannibal, that he kills his own food and eats it warm and raw.So he can afford to sit in the open.If I did that, all my time and all my money would go to the cheap-skates with hard-luck tales.I don't hide because I'm haughty, but because I'm weak and soft.''

In appearance Mr.Crossley did not suggest his name.

He was a tallish, powerful-looking person with a smooth, handsome, audacious face, with fine, laughing, but somehow untrustworthy eyes--at least untrustworthy for women, though women had never profited by the warning.He dressed in excellent taste, almost conspicuously, and the gay and expensive details of his toilet suggested a man given over to liveliness.As a matter of fact, this liveliness was potential rather than actual.Mr.Crossley was always intending to resume the giddy ways of the years before he became a great man, but was always so far behind in the important things to be done and done at once that he was forced to put off.However, his neckties and his shirts and his flirtations, untrustworthy eyes kept him a reputation for being one of the worst cases in Broadway.In vain did his achievements show that he could not possibly have time or strength for anything but work.He looked like a rounder; he was in a business that gave endless dazzling opportunities for the lively life; a rounder he was, therefore.

He was about forty.At first glance, so vivid and energetic was he, he looked like thirty-five, but at second glance one saw the lines, the underlying melancholy signs of strain, the heavy price he had paid for phenomenal success won by a series of the sort of risks that make the hair fall as autumn leaves on a windy day and make such hairs as stick turn rapidly gray.Thus, there were many who thought Crossley was through vanity shy of the truth by five or six years when he said forty.

In ordinary circumstances Mildred would never have got at Crossley.This was the first business call of her life where she had come as an unknown and unsupported suitor.Her reception would have been such at the hands of Crossley's insolent and ill-mannered underlings that she would have fled in shame and confusion.

It is even well within the possibilities that she would have given up all idea of a career, would have sent for Baird, and so on.And not one of those who, timid and inexperienced, have suffered rude rebuff at their first advance, would have condemned her.But it so chanced --whether by good fortune or by ill the event was to tell--that she did not have to face a single underling.

The hall door was open.She entered.It happened that while she was coming up in the elevator a quarrel between a motorman and a driver had heated into a fight, into a small riot.All the underlings had rushed out on a balcony that commanded a superb view of the battle.The connecting doors were open;Mildred advanced from room to room, seeking someone who would take her card to Mr.Crossley.When she at last faced a closed door she knocked.

``Come!'' cried a pleasant voice.

And in she went, to face Crossley himself--Crossley, the ``weak and soft,'' caught behind his last entrenchment with no chance to escape.Had Mildred looked the usual sort who come looking for jobs in musical comedy, Mr.Crossley would not have risen--not be-cause he was snobbish, but because, being a sensitive, high-strung person, he instinctively adopted the manner that would put the person before him at ease.He glanced at Mildred, rose, and thrust back forthwith the slangy, offhand personality that was perhaps the most natural--or was it merely the most used?--of his many personalities.It was Crossley the man of the world, the man of the artistic world, who delighted Mildred with a courteous bow and offer of a chair, as he said:

``You wished to see me?''

``If you are Mr.Crossley,'' said Mildred.

``I should be tempted to say I was, if I wasn't,''

said he, and his manner made it a mere pleasantry to put her at ease.

``There was no one in the outside room, so I walked on and on until your door stopped me.''

``You'll never know how lucky you were,'' said he.

``They tell me those fellows out there have shocking manners.''

``Have you time to see me now? I've come to apply for a position in musical comedy.''

``You have not been on the stage, Miss--''

``Gower.Mildred Gower.I've decided to use my own name.''

``I know you have not been on the stage.''

``Except as an amateur--and not even that for several years.But I've been working at my voice.''