‘It’s Milford,’ said Carl; ‘the manager. There’s going to be a row. A bit of a row will do you good, my poor fellow. I shall let him in.’ So said, so done. Enter Milford the lordly, in a towering rage, followed by Holt, evidently disposed to appease his manager’s wrath. ‘I have called,’ said the manager, blowing hard and fixing a savage eye on Carl, ‘to know what the devil you mean, sir, by turning the theatre into a bear-garden?’ ‘My good sir----’ said Carl with Continental affability. ‘Don’t “good sir” me, sir,’ cried the manager. ‘What the devil do you mean, sir?’ ‘This is a matter for commiseration, sir, not for anger,’ Carl began. Then the great man began to swear, and did it well and fluently, with gusto. When he had done, he collected himself and shook his fist at Carl with a final admonition. ‘Don’t you come near my theatre again, you--you foreign rascal.’ ‘It is I who am to blame,’ said Christopher, ‘and not he. It was I who played for him, and who--in short, I am to blame.’ The manager glared speechlessly for a moment, and then gasped, ‘Explain, sir.’ ‘Mr. Rubach,’ said Christopher, ‘had sprained his wrist by a fall this evening. He came to me and requested me to play for him behind the scenes in the last act. You know what happened. _That_ I cannot explain.’ The situation was awkward for everybody. If Barbara’s perfidy had sullied his own life and left him desolate, Christopher could still speak no evil of her in the presence of the man for whom she had jilted him. Carl’s tongue was tied by his regard for Holt’s feelings. The manager naturally wanted to get at the bottom of the situation, and the dramatist felt that a friend whom he was learning to value had somehow imperilled his play. All four stood silent, and footsteps came leisurely up the stone stairs, and were heard very distinctly in the stillness. The door had been left open, but one of the new-comers stopped to tap at it. ‘Come in,’ cried Carl, ready to welcome any diversion. A red face and a grey head came round the door. ‘Does Mr. Stretton------? Oh! Chris, my boy, how are you?’ No other a person than Barbara’s uncle. ‘I’ve brought Barbara to see you. Come in, Barbara. Why, what’s the matter?’ Christopher turned away from Barbara, as she approached him, veiled, and walked to the window, through which he looked on the night, seeing nothing. ‘Chris!’ said Barbara, in a pathetic, wounded voice. ‘Chris!’ Mechanically she raised her veil and looked round upon her uncle with a pale scared face. ‘Stretton!’ roared Carl, leaping at him and laying forcible hands upon him, forgetful of his own sprained wrist. ‘Is this Miss Allen?’ ‘Yes,’ said Christopher, with a sob which would have way in spite of him. ‘Then it isn’t Mademoiselle Hélène,’ said Carl. Christopher turned with bewildered looks. ‘Tell me,’ he said to Barbara wildly, ‘are you playing at the Garrick Theatre?’ ‘You’ve been a-drinking, Christopher,’ said Barbara’s uncle plaintively.