"Now for the
heiress and the million of money. By Jove! it's better to be born lucky
than rich. I shall need an accomplice in this affair, and that imp of
Satan, Halloran, is just the one to help me out with my scheme. It's
lucky I have an appointment with him to-night. I shall be sure to catch
him. I think it was a stroke of fate that I wasn't in the cast for the
rest of the week, though I kicked pretty hard against it at the time.
Good-by, footlights and freezing dressing-rooms. I can make a million of
money ere the day dawns."
He hailed a passing cab, jumped into it and was driven across the city.
Halloran, the comedian at the same theatre, was sitting in his room
half asleep over a half-emptied rum bottle. He always resorted to this
course to drown his sorrows when he was laid off.
An hour later the two men were driving with lightning-like rapidity
toward the direction of Beechwood.
"Ten," sounded from the belfry of a far-off church as the horses,
plunging and panting, struggled up the road that led to the Fairfax
mansion.
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