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“Why, the poor little kid,” said he–“the poor, lonely, stifled little crippled-up kid.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” inquired his chauffeur.

“Speak when you’re spoken to,” snapped Sid Hahn.

And here it must be revealed to you that Sid Hahn did not marry the Cinderella of the storage warehouse. He did not marry anybody, and neither did Josie. And yet there is a bit more to this story–ten years more, if you must know–ten years, the end of which found Josie a sparse, spectacled, and agile little cripple, as alert and caustic as ever. It found Sid Hahn the most famous theatrical man of his day. It found Sarah Haddon at the fag-end of a career that had blazed with triumph and adulation. She had never had a success like “Splendour.” Indeed, there were those who said that all the plays that followed had been failures, carried to semi-success on the strength of that play’s glorious past. She eschewed low-cut gowns now. She knew that it is the telltale throat which first shows the marks of age. She knew, too, why Bernhardt, in “Camille,” always died in a high-necked nightgown. She took to wearing high, ruffled things about her throat, and softening, kindly chiffons.

And then, in a mistaken moment, they planned a revival of “Splendour.” Sarah Haddon would again play the part that had become a classic. Fathers had told their children of it–of her beauty, her golden voice, the exquisite grace of her, the charm, the tenderness, the pathos. And they told them of the famous black velvet dress, and how in it she had moved like a splendid, buoyant bird.

So they revived “Splendour.” And men and women brought their sons and daughters to see. And what they saw was a stout, middle-aged woman in a too-tight black velvet dress that made her look like a dowager. And when this woman flopped down on her knees in the big scene at the close of the last act she had a rather dreadful time of it getting up again. And the audience, resentful, bewildered, cheated of a precious memory, laughed. That laugh sealed the career of Sarah Haddon. It is a fickle thing, this public that wants to be amused; fickle and cruel and–paradoxically enough–true to its superstitions. The Sarah Haddon of eighteen years ago was one of these. They would have none of this fat, puffy, ample-bosomed woman who was trying to blot her picture from their memory. “Away with her!” cried the critics through the columns of next morning’s paper. And Sarah Haddon’s day was done.

“It’s because I didn’t wear the original black velvet dress!” cried she, with the unreasoning rage for which she had always been famous. “If I had worn it, everything would have been different. That dress had a good-luck charm. Where is it? I want it. I don’t care if they do take off the play. I want it. I want it.”

“Why, child,” Sid Hahn said soothingly, “that dress has probably fallen into dust by this time.”

“Dust! What do you mean? How old do you think I am? That you should say that to me! I’ve made millions for you, and now–“

“Now, now, Sally, be a good girl. That’s all rot about that dress being lucky. You’ve grown out of this part; that’s all. We’ll find another play–“

“I want that dress.”

Sid Hahn flushed uncomfortably. “Well, if you must know, I gave it away.”

“To whom?”

“To–to Josie Fifer. She took a notion to it, and so I told her she could have it.” Then, as Sarah Haddon rose, dried her eyes, and began to straighten her hat: “Where are you going?” He trailed her to the door worriedly. “Now, Sally, don’t do anything foolish. You’re just tired and overstrung. Where are you–“

“I am going to see Josie Fifer.”

“Now, look here, Sarah!”

But she was off, and Sid Hahn could only follow after, the showman in him anticipating the scene that was to follow. When he reached the fourth floor of the storehouse Sarah Haddon was there ahead of him. The two women–one tall, imperious, magnificent in furs; the other shrunken, deformed, shabby–stood staring at each other from opposites sides of the worktable. And between them, in a crumpled, grey-black heap, lay the velvet gown.