"Is Mr. Weldon engaging any one?"
And the red-haired stenographer, invariably without looking up from her machine, would reply:
"Nothing doing to-day."
Sometimes this routine would vary a trifle, in case Mr. Weldon, for reasons of his own, wished to have his office appear like a busy mart. Then the stenographer would say:
"Mr. Weldon is very busy now, but if you want to wait, perhaps you can see him."
This left-handed invitation, containing only the slightest ray of hope that perhaps the great manager would engage some one for something, was invariably pounced upon eagerly, for actors undergoing that sad daily routine known as "making the rounds," knew to their sorrow that invitations even to sit down and wait were few and far between. The "Call to-morrow" slogan was the more usual excuse in getting rid of applicants. In a profession as overcrowded as the theatrical business there are thirty applicants for every possible position, but still the unsuccessful ones keep on "making the rounds" on the chance that sooner or later they will be engaged.
Mr. Weldon's private reasons for wishing his outer office to be filled at certain times possibly had something to do with the fact that on these occasions certain smartly dressed, prosperous men called on business and were instantly admitted to the inner office. Then the stenographer, having had her cues, would drop some casual remark about "The backer of the new show," whereupon the professionals would become more alert at the prospect of "Something doing." Of course, conversely, the mysterious "backers" were impressed by the stage setting of an outer office of players looking for engagements from the great Mr. Weldon.
Contrary to the popular idea, based mainly on the comic weeklies, theatrical backers or "angels" are comparatively rare. Therefore, Victor Weldon's line of procedure since Mrs. Dainton had abruptly closed her American tour because of the illness of her Pomeranian pup, had been exceedingly uncertain. He had planned various productions on his own account, and he had endeavored unsuccessfully to interest certain financial gentlemen of the Wall Street district in the merits of two or three plays he had read. One of them in particular, a simple little comedy of peasant life in Germany, with two or three songs, had greatly impressed him. It was of Viennese origin, skillfully translated and adapted, but preserving the Viennese atmosphere and characters. Entitled "The Village Girl," the central rôle was that of a peasant girl who fell in love with a prince when the latter was hunting in disguise as a mere woodsman. Afterwards, meeting him at the state ball face to face in his gorgeous uniform, she, by renouncing her love for him because of his rank and title, ultimately led the old Emperor to relent and give his consent to their marriage.
"Good plot," murmured Weldon, after reading it in his private office. "The old stuff like this always goes with the public. There's a plot that must succeed, because it has never been known to fail. I can produce this play and make a barrel of money if I can only find a backer. I wonder if I couldn't rope Gordon in on this?"
Which explains why Sanford Gordon had already heard of the play at the time he renewed his acquaintance with Martha, and further explains the fact that three days later he was closeted with Weldon in the inner private office of Suite 1239 in the Knickerbocker Theater Building.