She closed the door on him, and he turned and went away. It was
all clear to him; Gregory had seen, not Clark, but the older man;
had told him and gone away. And under the shock the older man had
collapsed. That was sad. It was very sad. But it was also
extremely convincing.

He sat up late that night again, running over the entries in his
notebook. The old story, as he pieced it out, ran like this:

It had been twelve years ago, when, according to the old files,
Clark had financed Beverly Carlysle's first starring venture. He
had, apparently, started out in the beginning only to give her the
publicity she needed. In devising it, however, he had shown a sort
of boyish recklessness and ingenuity that had caught the interest
of the press, and set newspaper men to chuckling wherever they got
together.

He had got together a dozen or so of young men like himself, wealthy,
idle and reckless with youth, and, headed by him, they had made the
exploitation of the young star an occupation. The newspapers
referred to the star and her constellation as Beverly Carlysle and
her Broadway Beauties. It had been unvicious, young, and highly
entertaining, and it had cost Judson Clark his membership in his
father's conservative old clubs.

For a time it livened the theatrical world with escapades that were
harmless enough, if sensational. Then, after a time, newspaper row
began to whisper that young Clark was in love with the girl. The
Broadway Beauties broke up, after a wild farewell dinner. The