"What did you tell her?"
"I was shocked. I showed it. It seemed deception to me. Still—she made me an offer that—well, I told her I'd think it over."
"Good heavens, Jack! You wouldn't try to sell 'em both dialogue?"
"Why not? Play one against the other—make 'em keener for my goods. I've got a notion to clean up here quick and then go back to the real stuff. That little girl from the Middle West—I've forgot all about her, of course. But speaking of cleaning up—I'm thinking of it, Dick, my boy. Yes, I believe I'll take them both on—secretly, of course. It means hard work for me, but when one loves one's art, no service seems too tough."
"You're hopeless," Minot groaned.
"Say not so," laughed Paddock, and went away humming a frivolous tune.
At a quarter before seven, for the first time, Minot entered Mr. Tom Stacy's Manhattan Club and Grill. To any one who crossed Mr. Stacy's threshold with the expectation of immediately encountering lights and gaiety, the first view of the interior came as a distinct shock. The main dining-room of the Manhattan Club was dim with the holy dimness of a cathedral. Its lamps, hung high, were buried in oriental trappings, and shone half-heartedly. Faintly through the gloom could be discerned white table-cloths, gleaming silver. The scene demanded hushed voices, noiseless footsteps. It got both.
The main dining-room was hollowed out of the center of the great stone building, and its roof was off in the dark three stories above. On each side of the entrance, stairways led to second and third-floor balconies which stretched around the room on three sides. From these balconies doors opened into innumerable rooms—rooms where lights shone brighter, and from which the chief of police, when he came to make certain financial arrangements with Mr. Stacy, heard frequently a gentle click-click.
It may have been that the furnishings of the main dining-room and the balconies were there before Mr. Stacy's coming, or again they may have set forth his own idea of suitable decoration. Looking about him, Mr. Minot was reminded of a play like Sumurun after three hard seasons on the road. Moth-eaten rugs and musty tapestries hung everywhere. Here and there an atrocious cozy corner belied its name. Iron lanterns gave parsimonious light. Aged sofa-pillows lay limply. "Oriental," Mr. Stacy would have called the effect. Here in this dim, but scarcely religious light, the patrons of his "grill" ate their food, being not without misgivings as they stared through the gloom at their plates.
The long tables for the Harrowby dinner were already set, and about them hovered waiters of a color to match the room. Most of the guests had arrived. Mr. Paddock made it a point to introduce Mr. Minot at once to the Duchess of Lismore. This noble lady with the packing-house past was making a commendable effort to lighten the Manhattan Club by a wonderful display of jewels.