"It was knowing that you came from London," said Queenie. "You mightn't think it but I never met anybody before who came from London. And--I want to go to London. I will go!" "Well," remarked Brent slowly, "if young people say they want to go to London, and declare that they will go to London, why, in my experience they end up by going. But, in your case, why not?" The girl sat silent for a moment, staring straight in front of her at the blue smoke that circled up from the quaint chimney stacks of the town beneath the Castle. Her eyes grew dreamy. "I want to go on the stage," she said at last. "That's it, Mr. Brent." Brent turned and looked at her. Under his calm and critical inspection she blushed, but as she blushed she shook her head. "Perhaps you think I'm one of the stage-struck young women?" she said. "Perhaps you're wondering if I can act? Perhaps----" "What I'm wondering," interrupted Brent, "is--if you know anything about it? Not about acting, but about the practical side of the thing--the profession? A pretty stiff proposition, you know." "What I know," said Queenie Crood determinedly, "is that I've got a natural talent for acting. And I'd get on--if only I could get away from this place. I will get away!--if only somebody would give me a bit of advice about going to London and getting--you know--getting put in the way of it. I don't care how hard the life is, nor how hard I'd have to work--it would be what I want, and better than this anyway!" "You aren't happy in this town?" suggested Brent. Queenie gave an eloquent glance out of her dark eyes. "Happy!" she exclaimed scornfully. "Shut up in that house with Simon Crood! Would you be? You saw something of it last night. Would you like to be mewed up there, day in, day out, year in, year out, with no company beyond him and those two cronies of his, who are as bad as himself--mean, selfish, money-grubbers! Oh!" "Isn't your uncle good to you?" asked Brent with simple directness. "He's been good enough in giving me bed and board and clothing since my father and mother died six years ago," answered the girl, "and in return I've saved him the wages of the two servants he ought to have. But do you think I want to spend all my life there, doing that sort of thing? I don't--and I won't! And I thought, when I heard that you were a London man, and a journalist, that you'd be able to tell me what to do--to get to London. Help me, Mr. Brent!" She involuntarily held out her hands to him, and Brent just as involuntarily took them in his. He was a cool and not easily impressed young man, but his pulses thrilled as he felt the warm fingers against his own. "By George!" he exclaimed. "If--if you can act like that----" "I'm not acting!" she said quickly. "Well, well, I didn't say you were," he answered with a laugh. "Only if you could--but of course I'll help you! I'll find out a thing or two for you: I don't know much myself, but I know people who do know. I'll do what I can."