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 Tears sprang to her eyes. "I sure can do it, Mr. Deane, if you only give me the chance. Please tell me that you're not kiddin' me!"

"What salary do you want?"

"Anything—nothin'!"

She leaned for support against the big oak table, resting her damp hands upon it, bending forward queryingly, her eyes growing black with dilating pupils, searching Deane's face, fascinated, yet terrified by his enigmatic smile.

"Here's what I'm going to do for you, Miss Flynn. Let you play the part and give you seventy-five dollars a week."

Minnie made no outward move. But within came a violent physical disturbance. Her stomach seemed wrenched and twisted—nausea overcame her. The figures of the men merged into one and swayed like heat vibrations. Again she grasped the oak desk, straddling out her legs to get her balance.

"Quick—a glass of water!" cried Beauregard, who thought that she was going to faint.

"No, don't bother!" She forced a wan smile. "I got sick to my stummick for a minute. I'm all right now. How much did you say you was going to give me? That wasn't by the week, was it?"

Deane turned to Weaver. "Bring that contract here. I want her to sign it."

Minnie was afraid. She had signed something once—that paper at Madame Papillon's, "If you don’t mind, I'd rather not. I'll take your word for it. Do I work a couple o' weeks?"

"You'll have to sign the contract. Don't worry. There's no catch in it. It's very simple, merely a form. You're going to have at least eight weeks' employment. This picture is a special."

Minnie Flynn gasped, "You mean to say you're gonna pay me seventy-five dollars a week for eight weeks?"