“You’ll find her at Reeve’s office, I would imagine,” Loretta said in a cool voice, turning back to the stage and the company of players who stood watching and, at the same time, pretending to be unaware of the scalding ultimatum that had just been given the unfortunate Mr. Briggs. “Make haste,” she tossed back over one shoulder, “and my heartiest congratulations on your marriage.”

Reeve was just beginning to despair of Maggie Chamberlin when he heard her presenting herself to his secretary, Mr. Coates, in the outer office. Grinning to himself, he made a dash for his chair, behind his august desk, and pretended to be enthralled by the dull list of stock reports lying before him. He even went so far as to frown pensively over numbers he could have recited from memory.

“Mr. McKenna?”

Reeve looked up with feigned distraction and frowned again, as though he didn’t quite recall the face or figure that had been burned into his mind like a cattleman’s brand. Bombazine. Damnation and spit, they’d dressed her in black bombazine, like a common servant!

“Yes?”

She bit her lower lip and carefully set her disreputable reticule in a chair, approaching the desk as a French aristocrat might have approached the guillotine. “I do hope you remember me—my name is Maggie Chamberlin.”

Amused as he was, Reeve was not without sympathy for the lass; it was time to stop teasing her. He rose to his feet in a gentlemanly fashion and gave a slight nod. “Oh, yes—the actress. Won’t you sit down?”

Maggie removed her reticule from the chair and dragged the seat forward, practically falling into it. Of course, she rallied instantly; her insolent little chin rose a degree and her cheeks glowed a tropical pink. “I’m here about the role you promised me,” she said. “Were you sincere, Mr. McKenna?”

“Sincere” was too idealistic a word for the things this Yankee sprite made him feel, but it wasn’t without a certain legitimacy either. “I meant what I said,” he replied. And then, after an involuntary inspection of her person, he was compelled to ask, “Where the devil did you get that dress?”

Reeve watched, fascinated, as both relief and fierce pride played in her face. Before she could formulate a reply, the door burst open.

Philip Briggs, the nerveless little rotter, had the unmitigated brass to burst into the room, all bluster and blush, to caterwaul, “Good God, Maggie, what are you doing here?!”

Coolly, if somewhat unsteadily, Maggie Chamberlin rose to her feet. “I’m taking a part, Philip,” she said. “An even better one than you offered me.”

With uncharacteristic forcefulness Philip grabbed Maggie by the arm and dragged her out of the office, but not out of Reeve’s hearing. As he was shoving back his chair to follow, he heard Briggs make his confession.