In three years she had acquired a personal following, and a large one, at that. When Buffer and Lane had threatened her with their displeasure if she persisted in going with Austin Demarest, she had laughed at them. She knew, and so did they, that such threats amounted to nothing. The moment she was at leisure—and probably long before—they would be after her on bended knee, begging, beseeching, offering a fabulous salary, to secure the actress for which New York was clamoring. But she had reasons of her own for wishing to play for the talented young actor-manager. Perhaps the reasons were no longer her own. During the long rehearsals of “Jarvis of Yale,” it had been almost impossible to hide from the penetrating eyes of the other members in the cast the interest she felt in the person of the author and star. They had long ago sized up the situation, and confided to each other that Marion was daffier than ever about “Demmy.” They had all seen it but the one she cared more for than any one else in the world. This morning, as she sat alone at breakfast in the dining room of the New Haven House, she sighed a little as she thought of it. He was very blind. They had always been good pals. Once she thought that his feeling for her was something more than that, but now she was not sure. They had been separated all summer. He was writing his play, and she resting in the mountains. Since their return to the city he had been so full of his wonderful new venture that he seemed scarcely to have time to eat and sleep. All at once she glanced toward the door, and her eyes brightened. He had entered the room, and was striding toward her table. In one hand he held an open telegram. His face was full of perplexity and annoyance. “I can’t understand it!” he exclaimed, dropping down opposite her. “Hemingway wants me to come to town at once. Has something important to talk over. I don’t dare put him off, for all our chances of getting a New York date depend on him, and yet it’s deucedly inconvenient with so much here to look after.” Marion Gray hesitated an instant. “How very provoking,” she agreed presently. “But, of course, you must go. It would never do to offend Hemingway, and you know how erratic he is sometimes. Is there anything here to do except keep an eye on the theatre?” “Not much,” Demarest returned. “They have a good start there, and know what to do next, but I had expected to run over two or three times to be sure they were getting things straight.” “Why don’t you ask that nice Mr. Merriwell you were telling me about to look after things for you?” she suggested. Demarest’s face brightened. “That’s a good idea,” he returned quickly, “only it seems cheeky. However, I know he’ll do it if he can, and it’s the only way out. I’ll phone him.” He pushed back his chair, and stood up.