In the course of his present stay in Chicago, Drouet paid some slightattention to the secret order to which he belonged. During his last triphe had received a new light on its importance.

"I tell you," said another drummer to him, "it's a great thing. Look atHazenstab. He isn't so deuced clever. Of course he's got a good housebehind him, but that won't do alone. I tell you it's his degree. He's away-up Mason, and that goes a long way. He's got a secret sign thatstands for something."

Drouet resolved then and there that he would take more interest in suchmatters. So when he got back to Chicago he repaired to his local lodgeheadquarters.

"I say, Drouet," said Mr. Harry Quincel, an individual who was veryprominent in this local branch of the Elks, "you're the man that canhelp us out."

It was after the business meeting and things were going socially with ahum. Drouet was bobbing around chatting and joking with a score ofindividuals whom he knew.

"What are you up to?" he inquired genially, turning a smiling face uponhis secret brother.

"We're trying to get up some theatricals for two weeks from to-day, andwe want to know if you don't know some young lady who could take apart--it's an easy part."

"Sure," said Drouet, "what is it?" He did not trouble to remember thathe knew no one to whom he could appeal on this score. His innategood-nature, however, dictated a favourable reply.

"Well, now, I'll tell you what we are trying to do," went on Mr.Quincel. "We are trying to get a new set of furniture for the lodge.There isn't enough money in the treasury at the present time, and wethought we would raise it by a little entertainment."

"Sure," interrupted Drouet, "that's a good idea."

"Several of the boys around here have got talent. There's Harry Burbeck,he does a fine black-face turn. Mac Lewis is all right at heavydramatics. Did you ever hear him recite 'Over the Hills'?"

"Never did."

"Well, I tell you, he does it fine."

"And you want me to get some woman to take a part?" questioned Drouet,anxious to terminate the subject and get on to something else. "What areyou going to play?"

"'Under the Gaslight,'" said Mr. Quincel, mentioning Augustin Daly'sfamous production, which had worn from a great public success down to anamateur theatrical favourite, with many of the troublesome accessoriescut out and the _dramatis personæ_ reduced to the smallest possiblenumber.

Drouet had seen this play some time in the past.

"That's it," he said; "that's a fine play. It will go all right. Youought to make a lot of money out of that."

"We think we'll do very well," Mr. Quincel replied. "Don't you forgetnow," he concluded, Drouet showing signs of restlessness; "some youngwoman to take the part of Laura."

"Sure, I'll attend to it."

He moved away, forgetting almost all about it the moment Mr. Quincel hadceased talking. He had not even thought to ask the time or place.

Drouet was reminded of his promise a day or two later by the receipt ofa letter announcing that the first rehearsal was set for the followingFriday evening, and urging him to kindly forward the young lady'saddress at once, in order that the part might be delivered to her.

"Now, who the deuce do I know?" asked the drummer reflectively,scratching his rosy ear. "I don't know any one that knows anything aboutamateur theatricals."

He went over in memory the names of a number of women he knew, andfinally fixed on one, largely because of the convenient location of herhome on the West Side, and promised himself that as he came out thatevening he would see her. When, however, he started west on the car heforgot, and was only reminded of his delinquency by an item in the"Evening News"--a small three-line affair under the head of SecretSociety Notes--which stated the Custer Lodge of the Order of Elks wouldgive a theatrical performance in Avery Hall on the 16th, when "Under theGaslight" would be produced.

"George!" exclaimed Drouet, "I forgot that."

"What?" inquired Carrie.

They were at their little table in the room which might have been usedfor a kitchen, where Carrie occasionally served a meal. To-night thefancy had caught her, and the little table was spread with a pleasingrepast.

"Why, my lodge entertainment. They're going to give a play, and theywanted me to get them some young lady to take a part."

"What is it they're going to play?"

"'Under the Gaslight.'"

"When?"

"On the 16th."

"Well, why don't you?" asked Carrie.

"I don't know any one," he replied.

Suddenly he looked up.

"Say," he said, "how would you like to take the part?"

"Me?" said Carrie. "I can't act."

"How do you know?" questioned Drouet reflectively.

"Because," answered Carrie, "I never did."

Nevertheless, she was pleased to think he would ask. Her eyesbrightened, for if there was anything that enlisted her sympathies itwas the art of the stage.

True to his nature, Drouet clung to this idea as an easy way out.

"That's nothing. You can act all you have to down there."

"No, I can't," said Carrie weakly, very much drawn toward theproposition and yet fearful.

"Yes, you can. Now, why don't you do it? They need some one, and it willbe lots of fun for you."

"Oh, no, it won't," said Carrie seriously.

"You'd like that. I know you would. I've seen you dancing around hereand giving imitations and that's why I asked you. You're clever enough,all right."

"No, I'm not," said Carrie shyly.

"Now, I'll tell you what you do. You go down and see about it. It'll befun for you. The rest of the company isn't going to be any good. Theyhaven't any experience. What do they know about theatricals?"

He frowned as he thought of their ignorance.

"Hand me the coffee," he added.

"I don't believe I could act, Charlie," Carrie went on pettishly. "Youdon't think I could, do you?"

"Sure. Out o' sight. I bet you make a hit. Now you want to go, I knowyou do. I knew it when I came home. That's why I asked you."

"What is the play, did you say?"

"'Under the Gaslight.'"

"What part would they want me to take?"

"Oh, one of the heroines--I don't know."

"What sort of a play is it?"

"Well," said Drouet, whose memory for such things was not the best,"it's about a girl who gets kidnapped by a couple of crooks--a man and awoman that live in the slums. She had some money or something and theywanted to get it. I don't know now how it did go exactly."

"Don't you know what part I would have to take?"

"No, I don't, to tell the truth." He thought a moment. "Yes, I do, too.Laura, that's the thing--you're to be Laura."

"And you can't remember what the part is like?"

"To save me, Cad, I can't," he answered. "I ought to, too; I've seen theplay enough. There's a girl in it that was stolen when she was aninfant--was picked off the street or something--and she's the one that'shounded by the two old criminals I was telling you about." He stoppedwith a mouthful of pie poised on a fork before his face. "She comes verynear getting drowned--no, that's not it. I'll tell you what I'll do," heconcluded hopelessly, "I'll get you the book. I can't remember now forthe life of me."

"Well, I don't know," said Carrie, when he had concluded, her interestand desire to shine dramatically struggling with her timidity for themastery. "I might go if you thought I'd do all right."

"Of course, you'll do," said Drouet, who, in his efforts to enthuseCarrie, had interested himself. "Do you think I'd come home here andurge you to do something that I didn't think you would make a successof? You can act all right. It'll be good for you."

"When must I go?" said Carrie, reflectively.

"The first rehearsal is Friday night. I'll get the part for youto-night."

"All right," said Carrie resignedly, "I'll do it, but if I make afailure now it's your fault."

"You won't fail," assured Drouet. "Just act as you do around here. Benatural. You're all right. I've often thought you'd make a corking goodactress."

"Did you really?" asked Carrie.

"That's right," said the drummer.

He little knew as he went out of the door that night what a secret flamehe had kindled in the bosom of the girl he left behind. Carrie waspossessed of that sympathetic, impressionable nature which, ever in themost developed form, has been the glory of the drama. She was createdwith that passivity of soul which is always the mirror of the activeworld. She possessed an innate taste for imitation and no small ability.Even without practice, she could sometimes restore dramatic situationsshe had witnessed by re-creating, before her mirror, the expressions ofthe various faces taking part in the scene. She loved to modulate hervoice after the conventional manner of the distressed heroine, andrepeat such pathetic fragments as appealed most to her sympathies. Oflate, seeing the airy grace of the _ingenue_ in several well-constructedplays, she had been moved to secretly imitate it, and many were thelittle movements and expressions of the body in which she indulged fromtime to time in the privacy of her chamber. On several occasions, whenDrouet had caught her admiring herself, as he imagined, in the mirror,she was doing nothing more than recalling some little grace of the mouthor the eyes which she had witnessed in another. Under his airyaccusation she mistook this for vanity and accepted the blame with afaint sense of error, though, as a matter of fact, it was nothing morethan the first subtle outcroppings of an artistic nature, endeavouringto re-create the perfect likeness of some phase of beauty which appealedto her. In such feeble tendencies, be it known, such outworking ofdesire to reproduce life, lies the basis of all dramatic art.

Now, when Carrie heard Drouet's laudatory opinion of her dramaticability, her body tingled with satisfaction. Like the flame which weldsthe loosened particles into a solid mass, his words united thosefloating wisps of feeling which she had felt, but never believed,concerning her possible ability, and made them into a gaudy shred ofhope. Like all human beings, she had a touch of vanity. She felt thatshe could do things if she only had a chance. How often had she lookedat the well-dressed actresses on the stage and wondered how she wouldlook, how delightful she would feel if only she were in their place. Theglamour, the tense situation, the fine clothes, the applause, these hadlured her until she felt that she, too, could act--that she, too, couldcompel acknowledgment of power. Now she was told that she reallycould--that little things she had done about the house had made even himfeel her power. It was a delightful sensation while it lasted.

When Drouet was gone, she sat down in her rocking-chair by the window tothink about it. As usual, imagination exaggerated the possibilities forher. It was as if he had put fifty cents in her hand and she hadexercised the thoughts of a thousand dollars. She saw herself in a scoreof pathetic situations in which she assumed a tremulous voice andsuffering manner. Her mind delighted itself with scenes of luxury andrefinement, situations in which she was the cynosure of all eyes, thearbiter of all fates. As she rocked to and fro she felt the tensity ofwoe in abandonment, the magnificence of wrath after deception, thelanguour of sorrow after defeat. Thoughts of all the charming women shehad seen in plays--every fancy, every illusion which she had concerningthe stage--now came back as a returning tide after the ebb. She builtup feelings and a determination which the occasion did not warrant.

Drouet dropped in at the lodge when he went down town, and swashedaround with a great _air_, as Quincel met him.

"Where is that young lady you were going to get for us?" asked thelatter.

"I've got her," said Drouet.

"Have you?" said Quincel, rather surprised by his promptness; "that'sgood. What's her address?" and he pulled out his note-book in order tobe able to send her part to her.

"You want to send her her part?" asked the drummer.

"Yes."

"Well, I'll take it. I'm going right by her house in the morning."

"What did you say her address was? We only want it in case we have anyinformation to send her."

"Twenty-nine Ogden Place."

"And her name?"

"Carrie Madenda," said the drummer, firing at random. The lodge membersknew him to be single.

"That sounds like somebody that can act, doesn't it?" said Quincel.

"Yes, it does."

He took the part home to Carrie and handed it to her with the manner ofone who does a favour.

"He says that's the best part. Do you think you can do it?"

"I don't know until I look it over. You know I'm afraid, now that I'vesaid I would."

"Oh, go on. What have you got to be afraid of? It's a cheap company. Therest of them aren't as good as you are."

"Well, I'll see," said Carrie, pleased to have the part, for all hermisgivings.

He sidled around, dressing and fidgeting before he arranged to make hisnext remark.

"They were getting ready to print the programmes," he said, "and I gavethem the name of Carrie Madenda. Was that all right?"

"Yes, I guess so," said his companion, looking up at him. She wasthinking it was slightly strange.

"If you didn't make a hit, you know," he went on.

"Oh, yes," she answered, rather pleased now with his caution. It wasclever for Drouet.

"I didn't want to introduce you as my wife, because you'd feel worsethen if you didn't _go_. They all know me so well. But you'll _go_ allright. Anyhow, you'll probably never meet any of them again."

"Oh, I don't care," said Carrie desperately. She was determined now tohave a try at the fascinating game.

Drouet breathed a sigh of relief. He had been afraid that he was aboutto precipitate another conversation upon the marriage question.

The part of Laura, as Carrie found out when she began to examine it, wasone of suffering and tears. As delineated by Mr. Daly, it was true tothe most sacred traditions of melodrama as he found it when he began hiscareer. The sorrowful demeanour, the tremolo music, the long,explanatory, cumulative addresses, all were there.

"Poor fellow," read Carrie, consulting the text and drawing her voiceout pathetically. "Martin, be sure and give him a glass of wine beforehe goes."

She was surprised at the briefness of the entire part, not knowing thatshe must be on the stage while others were talking, and not only bethere, but also keep herself in harmony with the dramatic movement ofthe scenes.

"I think I can do that, though," she concluded.

When Drouet came the next night, she was very much satisfied with herday's study.

"Well, how goes it, Caddie?" he said.

"All right," she laughed. "I think I have it memorised nearly."

"That's good," he said. "Let's hear some of it."

"Oh, I don't know whether I can get up and say it off here," she saidbashfully.

"Well, I don't know why you shouldn't. It'll be easier here than it willthere."

"I don't know about that," she answered.

Eventually she took off the ball-room episode with considerable feeling,forgetting, as she got deeper in the scene, all about Drouet, andletting herself rise to a fine state of feeling.

"Good," said Drouet; "fine; out o' sight! You're all right, Caddie, Itell you."

He was really moved by her excellent representation and the generalappearance of the pathetic little figure as it swayed and finallyfainted to the floor. He had bounded up to catch her, and now held herlaughing in his arms.

"Ain't you afraid you'll hurt yourself?" he asked.

"Not a bit."

"Well, you're a wonder. Say, I never knew you could do anything likethat."

"I never did, either," said Carrie merrily, her face flushed withdelight.

"Well, you can bet that you're all right," said Drouet. "You can take myword for that. You won't fail."