He was smoking a black cigar, which
he omitted to remove from between his teeth as he welcomed his
visitor.
"So you've come to see me at last, little Miss Beatrice!" he
said, with a particularly unpleasant smile. "Come and sit down
here by the side of me. That's right, eh? Now what can I do for
you?"
Beatrice was trembling all over. The man's eyes were hateful,
his smile was hideous.
"I have not a cent in the world, Mr. Cruxhall," she faltered, "I
cannot get an engagement, I have been turned out of my rooms, and
I am hungry. My father always told me that you would be a friend
if at any time it happened that I needed help. I am very sorry
to have to come and beg, yet that is what I am doing. Will you
lend or give me ten or twenty dollars, so that I can go on for a
little longer? Or will you help me to get a place among some of
your theatrical people? "
Mr. Cruxhall puffed steadily at his cigar for a moment, and
leaning back in his chair thrust his hand into his trousers'
pocket.
"So bad as that, is it?" he remarked. "So bad as that, eh?"
"It is very bad indeed," she answered, looking at him quietly,
"or you know that I should not have come to you."
Mr. Cruxhall smiled.
"I remember the last time we talked together," he said, "we
didn't get on very well. Too high and mighty in those days,
weren't you, Miss Beatrice? Wouldn't have anything to say to a
bad lot like Anthony Cruxhall. You're having to come to it, eh?"
She began to tremble again, but she held herself in.
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