When Hollinger announced that his dish was ready, the four drew up at the table and had supper, which, thanks to Farson and the fight-trust man, was lively enough. They discussed theatrical matters, especially the Danish play on which the People’s had come to grief. Hollinger maintained that the trouble with the play was that it was neither moral nor immoral enough. It was simply too much like life. “If you are going in for vice, you must paint it red,” he pronounced. The leading lady listened and taciturnly ate her supper. Afterwards she accepted a cigarette and turned again to the fire. Brainard searched his brain for a topic that might interest her and finally asked: “How long have you been on the stage, Miss Walters?” “It was a good many years ago, the first show I was in,” she replied, and added with intention,—“before I met Krutzmacht.” “Where was that?” he asked lightly. “In Los Angeles in ninety-two.” “You gave up the stage for a time?” “Yes,” she said slowly. “He wanted me to.” “Oh!” Supper being finished, Brainard led the way to the large living room on the floor above. Here there were books, pictures, and old theatrical bills that seemed to interest Hollinger. He and Farson remained at one end of the room and thus gave Brainard a further opportunity for conversation with Miss Walters. Somewhat softened by the good supper and the friendly reception, she began to talk more freely of herself, her early experiences on the stage in a small stock company that played in the little towns of central and southern California, until she met Herbert Krutzmacht, who happened to be in Los Angeles one night when she was playing. Brainard, who was curious to find out all he could about Krutzmacht, observed carelessly: “You were working in his office when I—when we last met?” “Yes—I was working for him,” she said shortly. “Then why,” he asked suddenly, “did you try to sell him out to his enemies?” “I had good reasons,” she replied, looking him defiantly in the face, “a woman’s reasons. He hadn’t played fair with me!” “That is, hadn’t married you as you hoped he would?” Brainard suggested. “I didn’t say that!” she flashed quickly, realizing that she was in danger of committing herself. “Well, I hope the railroad people paid you well for your services.” “They quit paying me, naturally, after you got over to Europe with the stuff they wanted and sold it to the Germans.” “They dealt with the Germans instead,” Brainard laughed. “It might have paid better to stick by the old man to the end? . . . So, after we parted at Vera Cruz, you went back to the stage—into the legitimate?” “Mr. Hollinger suggested it when I met him at Jalapa. He got me a place in one of the San Francisco theaters a friend of his was running, and then later on when he went into the show business himself, he took me for one of his companies.” “Do you like the work?”