“But what does he know of me?” said Mariposa. “He’s never even heard of me.”
“That’s where you’re off, my dear. Jake Shackleton’s heard of everybody. He has every one ticketed and put away in some little cell in his brain. He never forgets a face. Some people say that’s one of the secrets of his success; that, and the way he knows the man or woman who’s going to get on and the one who’s going to fall out of the procession and quit at the first obstacle. He’s got no use for those people. Get up and hustle, or get out—that’s his motto.”
“But about me?” Mariposa entreated. “Go on.”
“Well, it’s a queer story, anyhow. The other morning I was sent for to the sanctum. There was a little talk about work and then he says to me, ‘Didn’t you tell me your daughter was taking piano lessons, Mrs. Willers?’ Never forgets a word you say. I told him yes; and he says: ‘Isn’t her teacher that Miss Moreau, whose father died a few months ago in Santa Barbara?’ I told him yes again, and then he wheels round on the swivel chair, looks at me so, from under his eyebrows, and says: ‘I knew her father once; a fine man!’”
“Oh, how odd,” breathed Mariposa, quivering with interest. “I never heard father speak of him.”
“It was a long time ago. He knew your father up in the mines some time in the fifties, and he said he admired him considerably. Then he went on and asked me a lot of questions about you, your circumstances, where you lived and if you were as good-looking as your father. He said he’d heard you were an accomplished young lady. Then I saw my cue and I said, as carelessly as you please, that Miss Moreau had a fine voice and plenty of musical ability, but unfortunately was not able to cultivate either, because her means were small, and it was a great pity some one with money didn’t help her. I says—just as casual as could be—it’s a great shame to see a voice like that lying idle for want of tuition.”
“What did he say then?” said Mariposa.
“Well, that’s the point I’m working up to. He thought a while, asked a few more questions, and then said: ‘I’d like to meet the young lady and hear her sing. It goes against me to have Dan Moreau’s daughter lack for anything. Her father’d have left a fortune if he hadn’t been a man that thought of every one else before himself.’”
“That was father exactly. He must have known him well. Mother, isn’t it odd he never spoke of him? What did you say then?”
“I? Why, of course, I saw my opening and jumped in. I said, ‘Well, I guess I can arrange for you to meet Miss Moreau at my rooms. I see her twice a week when she comes to give Edna her piano lesson. I’ll ask her when she can come, and let you know and then she’ll sing for you.’ He was pleased, he was real pleased, and said he’d come whenever I said. And now, young woman,” laying a large white-gloved hand on Mariposa’s knee, “that ought to be the beginning of a career for you!”