He was amused, and, for an instant, surprised, at being mistaken for Demarest, but he did not disabuse the men of their error. It would be just as well for them to think that he was the actor. They would perhaps work the better while he was looking on. Knowing the work which had to be done, he was able to straighten out several doubtful matters, and when he stopped again on his way home from practice, he was more than pleased at the strides they had made during his absence. The place was neat as a pin, and only a few more hours’ work was necessary to finish everything up. He rather expected that Demarest would call him up that evening, but no message came. Finally, about half-past eight, he got the hotel on the wire, and found that the actor had not returned. “He’ll probably get the early train in the morning,” he said to himself. “I’ll hear from him then.” Having no lecture until ten o’clock, he spent the time getting up back work. He was just slipping into his coat to leave the room when the telephone bell rang insistently, and, stepping over to the instrument, he took down the receiver. “Is this Mr. Merriwell?” came in a woman’s voice. “Yes.” “This is Miss Gray—Miss Marion Gray. I’m dreadfully worried about Mr. Demarest. Two trains are in, and he hasn’t appeared. The rehearsal is set for eleven, and I don’t know what to do. I phoned Hemingway’s office, and they said he hadn’t been there since last night, late. Could you—would you come over to the hotel for a few minutes? You see, there’s no one I can get to advise me what to do, and I knew you were Mr. Demarest’s friend, so I thought——” The sweet voice trailed off in a questioning silence. “Certainly, I’ll come, Miss Gray,” Merriwell answered promptly. “Be over in three minutes.” Hanging up the receiver, he took up his hat and left the rooms. “I don’t understand it,” he murmured, as he ran downstairs. “He should have been here two hours ago. Great Scott. I hope nothing’s happened to him. If he didn’t show up in time for the performance, everything would be ruined. But he must show up—he will!” Flinging open the outer door, he almost fell over a telegraph boy. His heart gave a sudden throb of fear. “Merriwell live here?” inquired the boy. “Yes,” Dick said quickly. “That’s my name. Give it to me.” He snatched the ominous yellow missive from the other’s hand, and tore it open in breathless haste. The boy saw his face pale suddenly, and heard him draw his breath swiftly as his eyes flew rapidly over the crowded lines on the single sheet. But experience had calloused him to such sights as these, and, eager to be gone, he drawled out: “Any answer?” “No,” Dick said, in a strange voice; “none.” The boy departed, whistling carelessly, but Merriwell still stood on the stone steps, gazing blankly at the paper in his hand. Presently he drew one hand across his forehead in a bewildered manner. “I can’t!” he breathed. “I could never do it in this world! What is he thinking of?”