Flora had opened all the papers so that the dramatic reviews came uppermost, and as Baron glanced from one to another he forgot Flora completely. By the time he had glanced at the fifth review of the production of “The Break of Day” he dropped the papers and drew a long breath. “Holy Smoke!” he exclaimed, and then he returned to his reading. Baggot’s play had scored an almost unprecedented success. Several of the dramatic critics had written signed articles in which they expressed unbounded praise. And from his knowledge of newspaper writing, Baron knew that even the most hardened of theatregoers had been swept off their feet by the charm and novelty of the new play. Baron gathered that a new actress had been added to the group of notable American artists as a result of the creation of the part of “The Sprite.” But when he sought from one account to another for the name of this player, he found only that the rôle of “The Sprite” had been played “By Herself.” He couldn’t find her name anywhere, or anything about her. But after all, the identity of even a very successful player was not the thing Baron was thinking of most. He was delighted that Baggot had been successful. It seemed that Baggot had “arrived.” His reflections were interrupted by his mother. She entered the room rather hurriedly. Baron realized that something must have happened, or she wouldn’t have come in like that, rubbing her eyes sleepily and wearing a loose wrapper. “They’re telephoning for you down at the newspaper office,” she yawned. “I didn’t tell them you were--that you couldn’t.... I thought maybe you might like to do some writing in bed, if they want you to.” “No, I’m not going to do any writing in bed. I feel as if that is what I’ve been doing always. I’m going to wait until I can get up, and then I’m going to work in earnest.” She regarded him dubiously, not understanding at all. “And what shall I say?” she asked. “Tell them I’m laid up, and that I’ll be down to see them as soon as I’m able to be about.” “Very well.” “And mother--don’t say I’ve got a sprained ankle. Think of something else.” “Something else----” Mrs. Baron succeeded now in opening her eyes to their normal width. “It doesn’t sound very impressive. Everybody sprains his ankle. You might say I’ve broken my leg, if you can’t think of anything else.” “A sprained ankle is a sprained ankle,” was the answer he received; and he dropped back on his pillow as limply as if he had been overcome by a great flash of truth. Almost immediately, however, he heard a distant commotion on the stairway and, after an instant of whispering and murmuring in the hall, his door flew open. To his astonishment, Bonnie May literally ran into the room. Her face was colorless; she was staring at him. “What happened?” she asked in a voice which was unsteady. “Nothing, child!” he exclaimed sharply. “They’ve alarmed you. It was nothing at all. Didn’t mother tell you?”