“Yes, I understood that from Austin,” Merriwell returned quietly. “But I don’t see what he can do now. You’ll have every one at the theatre at two, will you?” “Surely. Thank you so much, Mr. Merriwell, and do forgive me for putting you to so much trouble.” “It hasn’t been any trouble at all,” Dick assured her. “I was terribly worried about Austin myself, but everything will be all right now. If you don’t mind, I won’t come over just now. I have some rather important work to do, but I’ll meet you later, I hope.” “Of course. You must come behind the scenes to-night, and meet the company. Thank you again. Good-by.” As he hung up the receiver, a whimsical smile flashed into Merriwell’s face. “Yes, I certainly expect to come behind the scenes, and meet the company,” he murmured. “I’m glad she didn’t ask any more questions. As it was, I escaped without telling an actual untruth. I suppose Demarest is wise in not wanting any one to know. It would probably break them all up; but I wonder if I can possibly keep up the deception. Gee! It makes me cold all over to think about it! Just have to trust to luck, I reckon. Now for it.” Snatching up the manuscript of the play, he dragged a chair close to the window, and started to work. In something over an hour, he got up, and, dropping the play, began to walk the floor, reeling off the part at lightning speed. When he came to the end of the first act, he gave a sigh of relief. “One gone,” he muttered. “Pretty superficial, but it will have to do. I must see that the prompter is on the job to-night.” When he next came to himself another act had been memorized, and it was half-past twelve. He had expected Brad to come in and interrupt, but happily the Texan did not appear. He must have gone directly to the dining hall from his last recitation. By a quarter of two the last words had been committed, and Dick snatched overcoat and hat, stuffed the manuscript into his pocket, and flew downstairs. Not ten minutes later the door was flung open, and Brad Buckhart entered hastily. “Not here!” he exclaimed, with a swift look about the room. “Where in thunder is he? Cut everything this morning, without a word of explanation! Didn’t even show up to dinner! It sure beats everything, the bad ways he’s getting into!” He plumped down in the chair beside the table, his brows drawn down into a scowl. A moment later he slid his hand down the arm of the chair, and drew forth a crumpled wad of yellow paper. “Humph!” he grunted. “What’s this?” Smoothing it out, he saw that it was a telegram, and, scarcely realizing what he was doing, his eyes took in the first line. After that nothing could have prevented his reading it to the very end, so interested was he. “Suffering catamounts!” he exclaimed. “If that don’t beat all! Arrested! Wants Dick to take the part! Great tarantulas! That’s what the old galoot’s been up to all morning—learning the stuff. It’s sure it!”