"Behind, I think--talking it over with Etheringham. Well, let 'em talk!" He shaped his lips for a whistle, but thought better of it. "We'll have another flutter some day, Mr. Sarradet!" he remarked with an air of genial encouragement. "Flutter!" The old man was choking with indignation. "If I ever----!" "Well, we'd best be getting home," Sidney interposed, with an authority which made the suggestion an order. "Come along, Marie." "Bring Pops, Raymond," Marie directed. She gave her free hand to Arthur, raising mournful eyes to his. "What a terrible experience!" she murmured. "He calls it a flutter!"--A fragment of old Sarradet's indignation was blown back from the pavement into the lobby. "Not sports!" Joe mused regretfully. "Not what I call sports, Arthur! I'm really rather sorry we didn't manage to rope old Sidney in too. Looking so dashed wise, wasn't he? Come along, let's find Claud--and I want to see Ayesha." "I suppose we shall have to settle what's to be done about it, shan't we?" "We'll hear what Langley thinks." They found a little party in Mr. Etheringham's room--that gentleman himself, standing with his back to the fireplace, smoking a cigar; Willie Spring, an exhausted volcano, lying back in a chair, staring at the ceiling; Miss Ayesha Layard on the sofa, smiling demurely; and the author seated at the table with the script of the play in front of him; he was turning over the leaves quickly and with an appearance of eager industry. "Now we know what to think, don't we, Mr. Lisle? They've done our thinking for us." Mr. Etheringham smiled quite pleasantly. He was not at all fiery now. Arthur laid his hand on Mr. Beverley's shoulder. "It's an infernal shame, old chap. I'm most awfully sorry." "You gentlemen are two of the principal shareholders," Mr. Etheringham went on to Arthur and Joe. "Perhaps you'd like to talk over the situation privately?" "We're all right as we are--glad of words of wisdom from any of you! How do we stand, Langley?" said Joe, sitting down on the sofa by Miss Layard. "What's the situation?" "Well, you know that as well as I do. There's the production to be paid--about twelve hundred, I reckon--and we run into about eight hundred a week." "And what--if any--business shall we play to?" "You can't tell that. You can only guess--and you'd better not guess high! I should say myself that the money might last a fortnight--possibly three weeks. Some of 'em'll probably look in now and then, you know--and even if we paper the whole house, the bars bring in a bit." "I'd go a bit more," said Joe, "only the truth is I haven't got a bob--absolutely stony!" He jingled the money in his pocket. "Hear that--it's the last of it!" "If you think there's any chance," Arthur began eagerly, "I think I could----" Mr. Willie Spring's eyes came down from the ceiling and sought those of Mr. Etheringham; Mr. Spring also shook his head very slightly and smiled a tired smile.