The bell of the church on 3rd and Hamaday was tolling six as John Alcott woke from a most unpleasant sleep. The apartment was congested and derelict, but unfortunately it was the only home he could afford. John stumbled precariously into the crowded hallway to wait his turn-as was his usual routine-in the communal bathroom. When finally he clambered his way into the coffin sized toilet room, he studied his sorry reflection in the cracked and dusty mirror. His face, even beneath a week old beard, seemed sallow and rigid, as if his bones were about to pop out of his skin. He set a small jar on the sink and stirred the lather inside. Gently, he pulled the razor out of the leather pouch and began removing the hairs from his chin.

Mr. Alcott, however, was by no means an honorable man, and prior to the “Great Chicago Fire” had lived entirely off his parent’s wealth. In the three years that followed he had managed to squander all of his parent’s remaining assets gambling, and lose the family house paying off related debts. His current predicament was not entirely caused by the fire, but by his foolish habits after the death of his parents. John was far too prudish to pursue any honest means of employment, and preferred instead to contemplate the woeful situation he had befallen upon himself.

So it happened one day, as Mr. Alcott filched an abandoned newsprint from the yard of an industrious Irishman, that he noticed a particular headline that peaked his interest. He ran to the door of the Irishman’s house and banged furiously on the door. A squat man with a red face and yellowing hair cracked the door open a touch and regarded Mr. Alcott carefully. 
“John, what a – surprise” 
John pushed himself into the foyer and grabbed Mr. McCarthwright by the shoulders. 
“Tom, I need to borrow a little money.” 
“For heaven’s sake John!” he said removing John’s grip from his shoulders, ” I can’t loan you anymore money, the missus won’t allow!” 
“Tom, just listen to me! I promise I’ll make this worth your while…whatever I borrow I’ll pay you back ten-fold!” John smiled dubiously at his childhood friend, “Have a look at this” 
Tom took the paper and unfurled it to the headline that had put Mr. Alcott into such distress. 
” Mademoiselle Belote is back in town? The actress you thought was a bore?” 
“Don’t you see Tom? She’s the answer to all of our problems!” 
“No, I don’t see, and whatever you’re planning it’s not my problem.” He began to open the door, but John was quick to close it. 
“Tom she’s rich!” he said throwing his hands in the air, “Gobs and gobs of money! Don’t you remember the way she used to look at me after her shows? Surely I could swoon her easily.” 
“What I remember John, is how badly you thought she acted and how she smiled at your pocketbook.” 
Now, Mr. Alcott was a devious fellow and good for conning those he called friends. He got his money, and a little more, from his industrious Irish friend, and proceeded -with a new velvet sport-coat and an expensive new top-hat-to begin regularly attending all of Mademoiselle Belote’s performances. It was on one such evening, after a most dreadful interpretation of The Indian Princess, that Mr. Alcott approached Mademoiselle Belote. Although he thought her acting terrible, John found her quite visually appealing, with luscious hazel eyes, pearly skin, and round pink lips. Just as he had presumed, Mademoiselle Belote still eyed him with want and made a scene of talking with him. 
“Mademoiselle Belote, what a stunning performance! Never before have I been so moved by the arts.” He bowed dramatically and smiled, never taking his eyes from her face. 
“Merci, Monsieur Alcott. You flatter me dearly, but you must call me Abaume.”