Part 19 (1/2)

”Shall I ring up the curtain?” he asked quietly.

”Wait,” replied Gordon. He turned to Martha. ”Your answer?”

Martha did not look at him. ”No,” she replied simply.

Gordon drew in his breath quickly, and the concentrated anger seemed almost ready to burst its bonds. He stood looking at her intently for a moment, then apparently realizing that he was unable to alter her decision, he threw up his hands with a despairing gesture and started toward the door.

”There will be no performance, Weldon,” he said roughly. ”Dismiss the audience, pay everybody their salaries, and wind up the whole cursed business. I have sunk twenty thousand dollars for a hobby and a pretty face, but now, thank G.o.d, I'm through. I'm cured. That's all--good-night.”

”One moment before you go,” cried Martha, stung to the quick. ”You may have dazzled other girls before with your golden shower. You may have rung up curtains on success, and claimed your reckoning, but this time, even though you have brought me failure and humiliation, you may mark one failure for yourself. Good-night.” And with a proud gesture of independence, she turned her back upon him, and went into her dressing-room, while Gordon, with a muttered exclamation, left the green-room for the front of the theater.

As quickly as possible the despairing Weldon gave the necessary orders.

The moment the players understood there would be no performance, pandemonium broke loose. In an instant the green-room was filled with a crowd of excited players in oddly contrasting costumes, all chattering away for dear life.

”No performance?” cried Flossie Forsythe. ”What does it all mean?”

”Ain't I ever going to play a real part?” wailed Pinkie.

”My first time on Broadway, too,” said Arthur Mortimer, sadly.

”I never heard of such an outrageous proceeding,” shouted Arnold Lawrence, pompously. ”No performance, indeed? I was engaged for the season, and I shall sue for a season's salary.”

”You were engaged for the run of the play,” retorted Weldon, indignantly. ”If the play doesn't have a run you are ent.i.tled to nothing, but I give you and every one else two weeks' salary.”

”It is an insult to an artist,” insisted Lawrence, turning to a group of the dissatisfied and disappointed players.

Suddenly the door through the boxes was thrown open and Clayton entered.

”What does it all mean?” he demanded. ”The theater is crowded with a lot of people who want to know the reason for the sudden announcement. Why will there be no performance?” he added, drawing Weldon aside.

”I had to do it, Mr. Clayton,” explained Weldon, privately. ”You see it is not my production--I had to obey the orders of my financial backer.”

”You mean--”

”Gordon. Yes.”

”I see. Affairs came to a climax to-night,” said Clayton. ”I suspected something underhanded, but I didn't believe even Gordon capable of such a trick.” He paused an instant. ”Look here, Weldon, is this theater leased in your name?”

”Certainly,” replied Weldon, promptly.

”Then you could give the performance if you wanted to?”

”But Mr. Gordon will not pay the bills unless I carry out his orders,”

protested Weldon.

Clayton slapped him eagerly on the back. ”Then carry out my orders,” he cried enthusiastically, ”and I will pay the bills.”

”You?” Weldon's eyes lit up with renewed interest. He saw before him another prospective backer to take the place of the one who had just deserted him. ”You? Of course it _could_ be done, Clayton, the lease is in my name.”