"Princess Lalla! What in the world are you doing out alone at this time of night?"
Sally contemplated flight, but the limousine blocked her path. Before she could turn back the way she had come Van Horne stepped out of the tonneau of the car.
"Let me drive you to the carnival grounds, Sally," he urged in a low voice, completely devoid of mockery for once. "It's really not safe for you to be out alone dressed like that. Come along! Don't be prudish, child! I'm not going to harm you. Remember, 'I'm not that kind of a man!'" And he laughed as he almost lifted her into the car.
She sank back upon the cushions, feeling their depth and softness with a childish awe. The chauffeur started the car, and Van Horne dropped a hand lightly over hers as he leaned back and regarded her quizzically.
"I'm glad I ran into you," he told her. "I suppose you've been told that Enid--Mrs. Barr--is hot on your trail?"
"Yes," Sally nodded, her lips too stiff with sudden fright to form the word.
"She's almost convinced that you're really Sally Ford," he told her lightly. "And if she makes up her mind, there's nothing in heaven or hell that can stop Enid Barr. A damnably persistent little wretch! I've never been able to understand Enid's passion for succoring 'fallen girls.' She appears to be such a normal little pagan otherwise."
Sally said nothing because she could not. But her sapphire eyes were enormous and her mouth was twitching piteously.
"Listen, Sally," Van Horne leaned toward her suddenly, crushing her little brown-painted hands between his own immaculate white ones. "Let me get you out of this mess! I've been thinking a lot about you--too damned much for my peace of mind! And this is what I want to do--"
"Please!" Sally gasped, shrinking far into the corner of the seat, but unable to tear her hands from his.
"Wait till you've heard what I have to say, before you begin acting like a pure and innocent maid in the clutches of a movie villain!" Van Horne commanded her scornfully.
"I want to send you to New York, give you a year in a dancing academy that trains girls for the stage and a year in dramatic school--both at the same time, if possible. You've got the figure and the looks and the personality for a musical comedy star, or Arthur Van Horne is the 'rube' that you carnival people call him. What do you say, Sally? Think of it. A year or two with nothing to worry about except your studies and your dancing and then--Broadway! I'll put you over if I have to buy a show for you! Come, Sally! Say 'Thank you, Van. I'll be ready to leave tomorrow.'"