The firm of Dorgan & Olden is dissolved, Mag. The retiring partner has gone into the theatrical business. As for Dorgan--the real one, poor fellow! jolly, handsome, big Tom Dorgan--he died. Yes, he died, Maggie, and was buried up there in the prison graveyard. A hard lot for a boy; but it's not the worst thing that can happen to him. He might become a man; such a man as that fellow that sailed away before the mast this morning. X. There I was seated in a box all alone--Miss Nancy Olden, by courtesy of the management, come to listen to the leading lady sing coon-songs, that I might add her to my collection of take-offs. She's a fat leading lady, very fair and nearly fifty, I guess. But she's got a rollicking, husky voice in her fat throat that's sung the dollars down deep into her pockets. They say she's planted them deeper still--in the foundations of apartment houses--and that now she's the richest roly-poly on the Rialto. Do you know, Maggie darlin', what I was saying to myself there in the box, while I watched the stage and waited for Obermuller? He said he'd drop in later, perhaps. "Nance," I said, "I kind of fancy that apartment sort of idea myself. They tell you, Nancy, that when you've got the artistic temperament, that that's all you'll ever have. But there's a chance--one in a hundred--for a body to get that temperament mixed with a business instinct. It doesn't often happen. But when it does the result is--dollars. It may be, Nance--I shrewdly suspect it is a fact that you've got that marvelous mixture. Your early successes, Miss Olden, in another profession that I needn't name, would encourage the idea that you're not all heart and no head. I think, Nance, I shall have you mimic the artists during working hours and the business men when you're at play. I fancy apartment houses. They appeal to me. We'll call one 'The Nancy' and another 'Olden Hall' and another..." "What'll I call the third apartment house, Mr. O?" I asked aloud, as I heard the rings on the portiere behind me click. He didn't answer. Without turning my head I repeated the question. And yet--suddenly--before he could have answered, I knew something was wrong. I turned. And in that moment a man took the seat beside me and another stood facing me, with his back against the portieres. "Miss Olden?" the man beside me asked. "Yes." "Nance Olden, the mimic, who entertains at private houses?" I nodded. "You--you were at Mrs. Paul Gates' just a week ago, and you gave your specialties there?" "Yes--yes, what is it you want?" He was a little man, but very muscular. I could note the play of his muscles even in the slight motion he made as he turned his body so as to get between me and the audience, while he leaned toward me, watching me intently with his small, quick, blue eyes.