Her glorious Golden Circle; this is what the fellow members of her cast were coming to be. How different was the atmosphere of this new setting from that of the old Blackmoore.

“Of course,” she whispered charitably, “the Blackmoore was a horrible shell of a place. And it is easier to be happy and kind in beautiful surroundings. And yet I am sure that some of the most wonderful circles of friendship are found in the west side tenement region.” She was thinking of the blue-eyed Merry’s Golden Circle.

“Surely their lot is hard enough,” she told herself. “And yet they are happy in their own little circles.
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“What a sad place this grim old city would be,” she philosophized, “if it were not for the thousands upon thousands of these little golden circles of friendship we find everywhere! Sometimes it is a group that meets periodically in a pool room or a drug store. There are tiny club rooms everywhere. The people who work long days in downtown stores call one another Mary, Bob and Tom. They, too, are happy as they feel their tiny golden circle bind them round and round.

“But not one of them all,” she exclaimed loyally, “can boast of a more wonderful circle than ours!”

She thought of the Junior Ballet, those beautiful, talented young women who were being trained as her chorus. Their caresses and words of encouragement on that first night were not flattery. Every day, by little acts of kindness and courtesy, they proved this. They also bestowed their affections upon the old trouper, Dan Baker.

“And how I love them for that!” the little French girl said fervently.
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“And yet, who would not love him? His gray hair, his brooding blue eyes, his gentle, kindly manner toward all; how could anyone resist them?”

Soon enough she was to learn that there were those who could resist the old trouper’s kindly good nature. She was to learn, too, that this gentle old man held within his heart the courage of a soldier, the will and the power, if need be, to become a martyr for the right.

It was on that very evening that, as they loafed and talked over tea and toast in the studio, Dan Baker was called to the telephone, and Petite Jeanne heard him use language that she had believed quite foreign to his tongue.

“What’s that?” she heard him say. “A fund for actors? I have subscribed to the Fund for Aged Actors, yes. Yes. What’s that? Another fund? Five hundred dollars? Impossible!

“You will!” She saw his face turn red. His hands twisted themselves into livid knots. “Say, you! I know who you are now. It’s a racket! You’re trying to shake me down. You’ll never do it! Good-bye!”
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He slammed the receiver down on the hook and stood there until the hot blood drained from his face and left him white as marble. Watching him, Jeanne saw him totter. Thinking he was about to fall she hurried up to encircle him with her slender arms.

“What is it, old trouper?” she asked gently.

“It—why, it’s nothing.”

“Please don’t lie to me,” she pleaded. “One has no need to lie to a friend.”

“Well, then, if you must have it.” On his face a curious smile formed itself. “There’s a racket been going on in this town for a long time. My old friend Barney Bobson told me about it.

“You see,” he explained, leading her back to the fire, &ldquo............