Thornburg closed his theatre and turned his attention to a summer resort where there was an opportunity to launch an _al fresco_ entertainment scheme. “Everybody was leaving town.” There remained only the uncounted thousands for whom some lighter form of entertainment must be provided. The flight of time, the inevitable march of events, brought to Baron a realization of the fact that there was a promise he must keep. And so one day, during an hour in the attic, he spoke to Bonnie May. She didn’t seem to pay any attention at all to his preliminary words. It slowly dawned upon her that what Baron was saying concerned her in a special way. “... people you will be interested in, I am sure,” Baron was saying. “Thornburg, the name is.” He glanced at her; but the name had made no impression. “Mrs. Thornburg is not very strong, and a cheerful visit ought to be just the thing to help her. Mr. Thornburg is a theatrical man. Why, it was his theatre I met you in. They have a beautiful home.” “Oh, that makes me think,” was all the reply he received. “What became of the man who had a play?” “Eh--a play?” “You remember--when I first came. He had the first act and read it to you in the library, and I had to go to bed.” “Oh--Baggot. He’s probably forgotten all about it by this time. Or writing another that he’ll never finish.” She shook her head, unconvinced. “He was so enthusiastic,” she objected. So for the time being there was an end to the discussion of her visit to the Thornburgs. * * * * * Another week passed, and then Baron had an extraordinarily busy day. In the forenoon came a letter from one of the dramatic editors for whom Baron had done special work occasionally. “They are launching some sort of a dramatic stock enterprise out at Fairyland to-night,” the letter ran, “and I’m hoping you can do it for me. Thornburg is managing it. I don’t hope it will be much as a dramatic proposition, but you might be able to get some readable impressions. Please let me know.” A later mail brought a communication from Thornburg. The sight of the manager’s signature brought Baron up with a jerk--but he was reassured by the first few lines. Thornburg wasn’t charging him with bad faith. Instead, he was enclosing an order for an unlimited number of seats for the Fairyland opening. “I understand,” ran a pencilled line by way of postscript and explanation, “that you are to represent the _Times_ to-night.” Also there was a letter from Baggot. Baggot’s play had reached a stage where it needed Baron’s inspection. The budding playwright asked no questions. He merely declared his intention of calling that night. Baron went up into the attic to look at the morning paper. He wanted to know what they were doing out at Fairyland, and who was doing it.