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“No, sir; she seemed pretty badly upset.”

“What about?”

“Oh, something entirely outside of rehearsal, sir,” Packer answered in haste. “Entirely outside. She wanted to know if I’d heard any gossip about her husband lately. That’s it, Mr. Potter.”

“You don’t think she was shamming just to get off?”

“Oh, not at all. I–“

“Ha! She may have fooled you, Packer, or perhaps–perhaps”–he paused, frowning–“perhaps you were trying to fool me, too. I don’t know your private life; you may have reasons to help her de–“

“Mr. Potter!” cried the distressed man. “What could be my object? I don’t know Miss Lyston off. I was only telling you the simple truth.”

“How do I know?” Potter gave him a piercing look. “People are always trying to take advantage of me.”

“But Mr. Potter, I–“

“Don’t get it into your head that I am too easy, Packer! You think you’ve got a luxurious thing of it here, with me, but–” He concluded with an ominous shake of the head in lieu of words, then returned to the centre of the stage. “Are we to be all day getting on with this rehearsal?”

Packer flew to the table and seized the manuscript he had left there. “All ready, sir! ‘Nothing in this world but one thing can defeat’–and so on, so on. All ready, sir!”

The star made no reply but to gaze upon him stonily, a stare which produced another dreadful silence. Packer tried to smile, a lamentable sight.

“Something wrong, Mr. Potter?” he finally ventured, desperately.

The answer came in a voice cracking with emotional strain: “I wonder how many men bear what I bear? I wonder how many men would pay a stage-manager the salary I pay, and then do all his work for him!”

“Mr. Potter, if you’ll tell me what’s the matter,” Packer quavered; “if you’ll only tell me–“

“The understudy, idiot! Where is the understudy to read Miss Lyston’s part? You haven’t got one! I knew it! I told you last week to engage an understudy for the women’s parts, and you haven’t done it. I knew it, I knew it! God help me, I knew it!”

“But I did, sir. I’ve got her here.”

Packer ran to the back of the stage, shouting loudly: “Miss-oh, Miss–I forget-your-name! Understudy! Miss–“

“I’m here!”

It was an odd, slender voice that spoke, just behind Talbot Potter, and he turned to stare at a little figure in black–she had come so quietly out of the shadows of the scenery into Miss Lyston’s place that no one had noticed. She was indefinite of outline still, in the sparse light of that cavernous place; and, with a veil lifted just to the level of her brows, under a shadowing black hat, not much was to be clearly discerned of her except that she was small and pale and had bright eyes. But even the two words she spoke proved the peculiar quality of her voice: it was like the tremolo of a zither string; and at the sound of it the actors on each side of her instinctively moved a step back for a better view of her, while in his lurking place old Tinker let his dry lips open a little, which was as near as he ever came, nowadays, to a look of interest. He had noted that this voice, sweet as rain, and vibrant, but not loud, was the ordinary speaking voice of the understudy, and that her “I’m here,” had sounded, soft and clear, across the deep orchestra to the last row in the house.

“Of course!” Packer cried. “There she is, Mr. Potter! There’s Miss–Miss–“

“Is her name ‘Missmiss’?” the star demanded bitterly.

“No sir. I’ve forgotten it, just this moment, Mr. Potter, but I’ve got it. I’ve got it right here.” He began frantically to turn out the contents of his pockets. “It’s in my memorandum book, if I could only find–“

“The devil, the devil!” shouted Potter. “A fine understudy you’ve got for us! She sees me standing here like–like a statue–delaying the whole rehearsal, while we wait for you to find her name, and she won’t open her lips!” He swept the air with a furious gesture, and a subtle faint relief became manifest throughout the company at this token that the newcomer was indeed to fill Miss Lyston’s place for one rehearsal at least. “Why don’t you tell us your name?” he roared.