“All right! All right!” she said, bracing herself, “I’ll drop it. If you’ve dug up Frank Robson you’ve got me. He’ll do anything you say for a piece of money.” For some minutes the two sat in silence. A tired look had come into the woman’s eyes. “I wish I was a man,” she said. “I get whipped at everything I tackle because I’m a woman. I’m getting past my money-making days in the theatre and I thought the colonel was fair game.” “He is,” answered Sam dispassionately, “but you see I beat you to it. He’s mine.” Glancing cautiously about the room, he took a roll of bills from his pocket and began laying them one at a time upon the table. “Look here,” he said, “you’ve done a good piece of work. You should have won. For ten years half the society women of Chicago have been trying to marry their daughters or their sons to the Rainey fortune. They had everything to help them, wealth, good looks, and a standing in the world. You have none of these things. How did you do it? “Anyway,” he went on, “I’m not going to see you trimmed. I’ve got ten thousand dollars here, as good Rainey money as ever was printed. You sign this paper and then put the roll in your purse.” “That’s square,” said Luella London, signing, and with the light coming back into her eyes. Sam beckoned to the proprietor of the restaurant whom he knew and had him and a waiter sign as witnesses. Luella London put the roll of bills into her purse. “What did you give me that money for when you had me beat anyway?” she asked. Sam lighted a fresh cigar and folding the paper put it in his pocket. “Because I like you and I admire your skill,” he said, “and anyway I did not have you beaten until right now.” They sat studying the people getting up from the tables and going through the door to waiting carriages and automobiles, the well-dressed women with assured airs serving Sam’s mind to make a contrast for the woman who sat with him. “I presume you are right about women,” he said musingly, “it must be a stiff game for you if you like winning on your own hook.” “Winning! We don’t win.” The lips of the actress drew back showing her white teeth. “No woman ever won who tried to play a straight fighting game for herself.” Her voice grew tense and the lines upon her forehead reappeared. “Woman can’t stand alone,” she went on, “she is a sentimental fool. She reaches out her hand to some man and that in the end beats her. Why, even when she plays the game as I played it against the colonel some rat of a man like Frank Robson, for whom she has given up everything worth while to a woman, sells her out.” Sam looked at her hand, covered with rings, lying on the table. “Let’s not misunderstand each other,” he said quietly, “do not blame Frank for this. I never knew him. I just imagined him.” A puzzled look came into the woman’s eyes and a flush rose in her cheeks. “You grafter!” she sneered. Sam called to a passing waiter and ordered a fresh bottle of wine.