Angelo had a few well chosen friends in the world of stage people. As soon as offices were open the next morning, his card was presented to one of these. An hour later, with a bulky manuscript under his arm and a letter of introduction in his pocket, he entered the lobby of a second office.

He was ushered at once into the presence of a broad shouldered, rather dull, but quite determined appearing man who sat in a swivel chair before a birch-mahogany desk. In another corner of the room sat a tall, dark, young man whose face had the appearance of having been moulded out of chilled gray steel.
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“It’s a light opera,” said Angelo, placing his manuscript on the desk. “If you’ll let me tell you about it I am sure you will be able to decide at once whether or not it will fit the Blackmoore Theatre.”

The stout man nodded.

Angelo began to talk. As he continued to talk he began to glow. He was full of his subject.

“Wait!” The stout man held up a hand.

“Drysdale,” he said to the gray, steel-eyed man, “you had better sit in on this.”

Gray Steel arose, dragged a chair forward and sat down.

“All right.” The stout man nodded to Angelo.

“Shall—shall I begin over again?”

“Not necessary. Drysdale is clever. Takes a thing in the middle, and works both ways.”

Angelo talked and glowed once more. For fully half an hour, like a small car on a country road at night, he rattled and glowed.

“What do you think of it?” the stout man demanded, when the recital was finished. “Drysdale, what do you think? Find a chorus, right enough. Know one right now. House is dark. What do you think?”
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“Paris.” Gray Steel Face cupped his chin. “Americans go wild over Paris.”

“Sure they do, just wild. They—” Angelo’s flow of enthusiasm was cut short by a glower from Gray Steel Face.

“Mr. Drysdale is our director,” the stout man explained. “Directed many plays. Very successful. Makes ’em march. You’re right he does!”

“Gypsy stuff goes well,” Drysdale continued. “But who ever heard of taking a gypsy for a star? She’d need training. No end of it.”

“Oh, no! She—”

“We’d have to read the script. Have to see them perform.” Drysdale gave no heed to Angelo. “Say you bring ’em here to-morrow night, say eight o’clock.”

“No stage,” said the stout manager.

“We—we have a small one,” Angelo explained eagerly. “Come to my studio, won’t you? There you’ll see them at their best.”

“What say, Drysdale?”
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“We’ll be there. Mind! Eight sharp. None of your artistic foolishness!”

Next night, the two men did see Petite Jeanne and Dan Baker at their best.

Was their best good enough? The face of the director was still a steel mask. He conferred with his manager in the corner of the room for half an hour.

In the meantime Angelo perspired profusely. Petite Jeanne felt hot and cold spasms chase one another up her back, but Dan Baker sat placidly smoking by the fire. He was an old trouper. The road lay always before him.

But for Angelo and Jeanne hopes had run high. Their ambitions were on the altar. They were waiting for the fire.

“We’ll have a contract for you by eleven o’clock to-morrow,” said the stout man, in a tone as unemotional as he might have used to call a waiter. “Drysdale here says it’s a bit crude; but emotional stuff—got some pull, he believes. Office at eleven.”
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Petite Jeanne could scarcely await their departure. Hardly had the door closed when, in true French fashion, she threw her arms about the old trouper and kissed him on both cheeks. Nor was Angelo neglected.

“We’re made!” she cried joyously. “The footlights, oh, the blessed footlights!” She walked the young composer about the room until she was dizzy. Then, springing like a top, she landed in a corner by the fire and demanded a demi-tasse of coffee.

As they drank their coffee Angelo was strangely silent. “I don’t like what they said about the opera,” he explained, when Jeanne teased him. “They’ll want to tear it all to pieces, like as not, and put in a lot of half-indecent stuff.

“And that theatre,” he sighed. “It’s a frightful old barn of a place. Going to be torn down to make way for a skyscraper next year, I’m told. I hope you may not hate it too much.” As he looked at Petite Jeanne two wrinkles appeared on his high forehead.

“Oh, the Paris Opera,” she laughed. “That was but a small bit. I am sure I shall be quite d............