"I know her," insisted Mathison.
"I rather wish, though, that you would put this off until to-morrow night. Miss Farrington will be very tired. She's done a fine and generous thing—gone on without rest, after an unbroken journey from the other side of the world."
"No one is better aware of that than I. She will see me."
Rubin knew confidence when he saw it.
He twisted his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. A vigorous, unusual chap, this, and handsome enough to wake up The Farrington. Ten thousand miles! Her aloofness toward men was now accounted for. An old affair nobody had heard of. There was an ominous portent in this affair for Broadway. She was the loyalest of the loyal; she'd stick to her contract. But after!
Mathison settled down to his note. Each time he balled up a piece of paper and flung it into the waste-basket Rubin frowned.
The press agent came storming back, an usher in tow. The latter was given fifty dollars and ordered to purchase Parma violets.
"No tinfoil, no tinsel strings, no bouquet; loose, as they came from the soil. Carry this note and the flowers to Miss Farrington's dressing-room. And here is something for your trouble." To the manager he said, "Thanks for your courtesy."
"You're as welcome as the spring."
"Oh, boy!" cried the press agent as the door closed behind Mathison. "In a dead world like this! A real yarn, no faking. Did you lamp the roll he dragged out? That was real money, all yellows. Think of it! Our Norma, a navy man, ten thousand miles, flowers, a wad of yellows! She'll set up a holler. Pass the buck to me. I'll be the goat with the cheerfulest smile ever!"