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“By Joles!” old Carson Tinker muttered. “I never knew anything like it!”

“Oh–ah–Packer,” called the star, as the actors moved toward the doors. “Packer, ask Miss–Malone to wait a moment. I want– I’d like to go over a little business in the next act before tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mr. Potter?” It was she who answered, turning eagerly to him.

“In a moment, Miss Malone.” He spoke to the stage-manager in a low tone, and the latter came down into the auditorium, where Canby and Tinker had remained in their seats.

“He says for you not to wait, gentlemen. There’s nothing more to do this afternoon, and he may be detained quite a time.”

The violet boutonniere and the white carnation went somewhat reluctantly up the aisle together, and, after a last glance back at the stage from the doorway, found themselves in the colder air of the lobby, a little wilted.

Bidding Tinker farewell, on the steps of the theatre, Canby walked briskly out to the Park, and there, abating his energy, paced the loneliest paths he could find until long after dark. They were not lonely for him; a radiant presence went with him through the twilight. She was all about him: in the blue brightness of the afterglow, in the haze of the meadow stretches, and in the elusive woodland scents that vanished as he caught them;–she was in the rosy vapour wreaths on the high horizon, in the laughter of children playing somewhere in the darkness, in the twinkling of the lights that began to show–for now she was wherever a lover finds his lady, and that is everywhere. He went over and over their talk of the morning, rehearsing wonderful things he would say to her upon the morrow, and taking the liberty of suggesting replies from her even more wonderful. It was a rhapsody; he was as happy as Tom o’Bedlam.

By and by, he went to a restaurant in the Park and ordered food to be brought him. Then, after looking at it with an expression of fixed animation for half an hour, he paid for it and went home. He let himself into the boarding-house quietly, having hazy impressions that he was not popular there, also that it might be embarrassing to encounter Miss Cornish in the hall; and, after reconnoitering the stairway, went cautiously up to his room.

Three minutes later he came bounding down again, stricken white, and not caring if he encountered the devil. On his table he had found a package–the complete manuscript of “Roderick Hanscom” and this scrawl:

Canby,

I can’t produce your play–everything off.

Y’rs,

Tal’t P’r.

XI

Carson Tinker was in the elevator at the Pantheon, and the operator was closing the door thereof, about to ascend, but delayed upon a sound of running footsteps and a call of “Up!” Stewart Canby plunged into the cage; his hat, clutched in his hand, disclosing emphatically that he had been at his hair again.

“What’s he mean?” he demanded fiercely. “What have I done?”

“What’s the matter?” inquired the calm Tinker.

“What’s he called it off for?”

“Called what off?”

“The play! My play!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t seen him since rehearsal. His Japanese boy called me on the telephone a little while ago and told me he wanted to see me.”

“He did?” cried the distracted Canby. “The Japanese boy wanted to see–“

“No,” Tinker corrected. “He did.”

“And you haven’t heard–“

“Twelfth,” urged the operator, having opened the door. “Twelfth, if you please, gentlemen.”

“I haven’t heard anything to cause excitement,” said Tinker, stepping out. “I haven’t heard anything at all.” He pressed the tiny disc beside the door of Potter’s apartment. “What’s upset you?”

With a pathetic gesture Canby handed him Potter’s note. “What have I done? What does he think I’ve done to him?”

Tinker read the note and shook his head. “The Lord knows! You see he’s all moods, and they change–they change any time. He knows his business, but you can’t count on him. He’s liable to do anything–anything at all.”