A week had not passed since the night at the opera when Mariposa received a hasty letter from Mrs. Willers. It was only a few lines scrawled on a piece of the yellow paper affected by the staff of _The Trumpet_, and advising the recipient of the fact that Mr. Shackleton requested her presence at his office at three the following afternoon, yet a suggestion of triumph breathed from its every word. Mrs. Willers was clearly elated at the moment of its production. She hinted, in a closing sentence, that Mariposa’s star was rising rapidly. She, herself, would conduct the girl to the presence of the great man, and suggested that Mariposa meet her in her rooms a half-hour before the time set for the interview. Mariposa was glad to do this, and in the few moments’ walk across town toward Third Street, to hear what Mrs. Willers thought was the object of the interview. The girl’s cheeks were dyed with excited color as they drew near _The Trumpet_ office. Mrs. Willers was certain it was to do with her singing. Shackleton had almost told her as much. He had been immensely impressed by her voice, and now, with the Lepine Opera Company in the city, Mrs. Willers fancied he was going to have Lepine, who was a well-known impresario in a small but respectable way, pass judgment on it. Mariposa’s foot lagged when she heard this. It was such a portentous step from the seclusion of a rose-draped cottage in Santa Barbara, even to this talk of singing before a real impresario. She looked down the vista of Third Street where the façade of _The Trumpet_ office loomed large from humbler neighbors, and Mrs. Willers saw hesitation and fright in her eyes. Like a sensible guardian she slipped her hand through the young girl’s arm and walked her briskly forward, talking of the rare chances life offers to a handicapped humanity. _The Trumpet_ office, as all old San Franciscans know, stood on Third Street, and was, in its day, considered a fine building. Jake Shackleton had not been its owner six months yet, and all his reforms were not inaugurated. From the yawning arch of its doorway flights of stairs led up and upward, from stories where the presses rattled all night, to the editorial story where the sentiments of _The Trumpet_ staff were confided to paper. This latter and most important department was four flights up the dark stairway, which was lit at its turnings with large kerosene lamps, backed by tin reflectors. There was little of the luxury of the modern newspaper office about the barren, business-like building, echoing like an empty shell to the shouts of men and the pounding of machinery.