* * * * *

“Seventh floor, please,” said Van Bibber to the elevator boy.

The elevator boy was a young man of serious demeanor, with a smooth-shaven face and a square, determined jaw.  There was something about him which seemed familiar, but Van Bibber could not determine just what it was.  The elevator stopped to allow some people to leave it at the second floor, and as the young man shoved the door to again, Van Bibber asked him if he happened to know of a chambermaid with red hair, a tall girl on the seventh floor, a girl who danced very well.

The wire rope of the elevator slipped less rapidly through the hands of the young man who controlled it, and he turned and fixed his eyes with sudden interest on Van Bibber’s face, and scrutinized him and his companion with serious consideration.

“Yes, I know her—­I know who you mean, anyway,” he said.  “Why?”

“Why?” echoed Van Bibber, raising his eyes.  “We wish to see her on a matter of business.  Can you tell me her name?”

The elevator was running so slowly now that its movement upward was barely perceptible.

“Her name’s Annie—­Annie Crehan.  Excuse me,” said the young man, doubtfully, “ain’t you the young fellows who came to our ball with that English lady, the one that sung?”

“Yes,” Van Bibber assented, pleasantly.  “We were there.  That’s where I’ve seen you before.  You were there too, weren’t you?”

“Me and Annie was dancing together most all the evening.  I seen all youse watching her.”

“Of course,” exclaimed Van Bibber.  “I remember you now.  Oh, then you must know her quite well.  Maybe you can help us.  We want to put her on the stage.”

The elevator came to a stop with an abrupt jerk, and the young man shoved his hands behind him, and leaned back against one of the mirrors in its side.

“On the stage,” he repeated.  “Why?”

Van Bibber smiled and shrugged his shoulders in some embarrassment at this peremptory challenge.  But there was nothing in the young man’s tone or manner that could give offence.  He seemed much in earnest, and spoke as though they must understand that he had some right to question.

“Why?  Because of her dancing.  She is a very remarkable dancer.  All of those actors with us that night said so.  You must know that yourself better than any one else, since you can dance with her.  She could make quite a fortune as a dancer, and we have persuaded several managers to promise to give her a trial.  And if she needs money to pay for lessons, or to buy the proper dresses and slippers and things, we are willing to give it to her, or to lend it to her, if she would like that better.”

“Why?” repeated the young man, immovably.  His manner was not encouraging.

“Why—­what?” interrupted Travers, with growing impatience.

“Why are you willing to give her money?  You don’t know her.”