“She ought to have something to thank you for, I should say!” Miss Delacourt exclaimed warmly.
“I’m afraid not. I really feel in my bones that those crooks will beat me out of the property, unless a miracle comes along. I’ve been a poor sort of steward while I had charge of the money. I put every cent I squeezed out of the bankers into developing the mine, and saved myself by a fluke with the sulfur wells. Then all the money they brought in I’ve sunk in this theater game, without much to show for it, as you know.”
“Didn’t you keep a few dollars for yourself?” Louisiana inquired with childish directness.
“Oh, there are a few thousands lying around—enough, young lady, to have kept you going in Europe another year, and to put on this play of Farson’s. That wipes the slate clean, and I must pawn these duds to stake myself!”
“Maybe this play will make money,” the actress suggested thoughtfully.
“That will be the miracle, then!” Brainard exclaimed whimsically. “It will be a greater miracle than the one that made me into a millionaire.”
“Don’t you believe in Mr. Farson’s play?”
“Of course! But I don’t believe in our luck, nor in the people’s taste in drama, as I once did.”
The girl sat staring at the little picture, clutching its frame with her hands. After a time she looked up into Brainard’s face with a winning expression about her small mouth.
“Will you give me this?”