He had
counted on Aleta's smile. It seldom failed to cheer him, to restore the
normal balance of his mind. But, though she came, the smile was absent.
There was a faint ghost of it now and again; a harried look about the
eyes. Frank thought there was a mistiness which hinted recent tears.
He laid a hand sympathetically on hers. "What is it, little girl?"
She would not tell him. Her mother was ill. But the trouble did not lie
there. Frank was sure. She had borne that burden long and
uncomplainingly. Aleta had an ingenue part now at the Alcazar. Only once
or twice a week did she keep the tacit tryst at the little nocturnal
cafe. Frank saw her at the Techau, at Zinkand's, the St. Germain, with
the kind of men that make love to actresses. She knew all about the
stock market and politics, for some of Ruef's new Supervisors were among
her swains. Once or twice, as the jargon of the journals has it, she had
"tipped off" a story to Frank.
She said at last, "I'll tell you something ... but you mustn't print it:
This new city government is running wild.... They're scheming to hold up
the town. They've made a list of all the corporations--the United
Railways, the telephone company.
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