“And I’ll know my lines by that time,” she promised him.
No sooner had the door closed upon the secretary than she leaped to her feet.
“Now for the story! And may I see the picture again?”
Brainard fetched the little water color and placed it in her hands.
“As I told you,” he said, “it’s by way of being the story of my own life—at least, of the only part that counts as life!”
“Yes?” she said expectantly.
Looking over her shoulders, he pointed to a spot in the distant mountain background of the sketch.
“In there is the site of the great Melody mine—”
“Melody—what? Why, what do you mean?” the girl stammered in renewed excitement.
“The Melody mine—that’s the name of the mine about which there is the litigation, you know. That’s where all the money for the theater came from. It’s the famous pot of gold—my Aladdin’s lamp—only it’s likely to change owners.”