“I should say not, Green,” said the woman slowly; then she seemed to think of something, for she turned and looked at him earnestly. Jack Green was too shrewd not to know what he was doing. He had an end to gain or he would not have been neglecting his own duties at that minute. This woman, Carlotta, had never noticed him before. She had always held her head very high where the property man was concerned, and her constant disdain had nettled him sorely. Like many another man, he desired what was beyond him; but now his opportunity had come to accomplish his ends; he had only to help her wreak her vengeance on another. “Green,” whispered the woman, suddenly, as she took a step nearer, “Help me to sully that girl’s character so that Clayte Graham will believe it and I will reward you handsomely. Say, will you do it?” A dull gleam of light flashed from the property man’s eyes as he half closed his eyelids and peered at her through them. Carlotta’s face flushed through her paint and she drew back quickly. She read his meaning. “Think!” urged the man, “your position is at stake! If Graham falls in love with that girl he will drop you in a minute, and, mark my words, it will be a long day, Carlotta, before you get another rich lover.” “Well, how can you help me?” asked the woman, shrewdly. “Dead easy,” was the prompt answer. “I’ll fix that all right. I’ll compromise her myself if I can’t find any one else to do it; but my reward, Carlotta?” “You shall have your reward,” said the woman in a chilling whisper, “when that girl’s character is ruined.” * * * * * The first “call” was given as Carlotta hurried back to her room, and Jack Green turned hastily to attend to business. A second later there was a slight noise behind a stack of old scenery and after another second a girl slipped out from the mass, and shaking her skirts clear ran softly to her dressing-room. “So that is the kind of a fellow you are, Jack Green,” she murmured to herself, at the same time wringing her small hands in perfect agony. Marion Marlowe was ready to “go on” when this girl reached the dressing-room. It was a little box of a place, but they occupied it together. “Oh, Miss Lindsay, what is the matter?” said Marion, quickly. “You look terribly pale. Has anything happened? Are you ill? Is there anything I can do for you?” To all of these questions Miss Lindsay only shook her head. She was a frail, delicate girl, whom the others had nicknamed “The Feather.” Marion saw at once that the girl did not wish her sympathy, so she said nothing more, but went over by the door to wait where she could hear the call to the wings. Miss Lindsay hurried into her stage costume as quickly as possible, but she took very little pains with it. “What is the use of trying to look pretty?” she said finally. “No one cares how I look, so I’m not going to bother.”