“My dear, I’ll tell you all that later--talk for an hour if you can stand it. But that’s not what I came to say to-day. It’s business to-day--real business, and I don’t know but what all your future hangs on it.” She gave a triumphant look at the startled mother and daughter. With the introduction of serious matter her worn face took on a certain sharp intelligence and her language grew more masculine and less slovenly. “It’s this,” she said, leaning forward impressively: “I’m not sure that I haven’t found Mariposa’s backer.” “Backer,” said Lucy, faintly, finding the word objectionable. “What’s that?” “The person who’s to hear her sing and offer to educate the finest voice he’s likely to hear in the next ten years.” Mariposa gave a suppressed exclamation and looked at her mother. Lucy had paled. She was trembling at what she felt she was to hear. “It’s Jake Shackleton,” said Mrs. Willers, proudly launching her bombshell. “Jake Shackleton,” breathed Mariposa, to whom the name meant only vaguely fabulous wealth. “The Bonanza Man?” Lucy was sitting up, deadly pale, but she said nothing. “The Bonanza Man,” said Mrs. Willers. “My chief.” “But what does he know of me?” said Mariposa. “He’s never even heard of me.” “That’s where you’re off, my dear. Jake Shackleton’s heard of everybody. He has every one ticketed and put away in some little cell in his brain. He never forgets a face. Some people say that’s one of the secrets of his success; that, and the way he knows the man or woman who’s going to get on and the one who’s going to fall out of the procession and quit at the first obstacle. He’s got no use for those people. Get up and hustle, or get out--that’s his motto.” “But about me?” Mariposa entreated. “Go on.” “Well, it’s a queer story, anyhow. The other morning I was sent for to the sanctum. There was a little talk about work and then he says to me, ‘Didn’t you tell me your daughter was taking piano lessons, Mrs. Willers?’ Never forgets a word you say. I told him yes; and he says: ‘Isn’t her teacher that Miss Moreau, whose father died a few months ago in Santa Barbara?’ I told him yes again, and then he wheels round on the swivel chair, looks at me so, from under his eyebrows, and says: ‘I knew her father once; a fine man!’” “Oh, how odd,” breathed Mariposa, quivering with interest. “I never heard father speak of him.”