“It’s your last stunt for the old People’s. You know you have all got a lot out of the concern—for one thing, better pay than some of you will ever see again; and much more besides. So show that you’ve got something warm inside your anatomy where your hearts ought to be—at least a dog’s gratitude for the hand that’s fed you. The piece is all right, too; it will make the jaded pulse of Broadway flutter like an _ingénue_. Just you give the public a chance to discover that here is a play as _is_ a play!” During these strenuous weeks of rehearsal Brainard was absent most of the time in Arizona and Washington, where the already celebrated case of the Krutzmacht widow was now imminent. He had come to believe that Farson had more than a professional interest in his Gertrude, and he preferred to be absent from the scene of the wooing; but on the day of the dress rehearsal of _Her Great Adventure_ he returned to New York and dropped in at the theater on his way home, slipping into a seat in the rear of the dim house. The piece went with amazing swiftness and smoothness, thanks to the hard work Miss Delacourt had got out of the company. Absorbed by the play, Brainard was completely taken out of the wearying round of his daily perplexities. “It _is_ a play,” he muttered excitedly to himself, “and they do it wonderfully well. That girl is almost great. If the public will only come to see her, and not believe what the newspapers say, they’ll understand. She’s an actress!” He repeated these warm words of praise a little later in Miss Delacourt’s dressing room, where he went to congratulate the actress. Louisiana was in street costume, buttoning up her gloves, when he arrived. “I saw you in the back row,” she said in reply. “Any better news?” “I am afraid not. The first court reserved its decision. They put up an amazing case, the impudent rascals! They almost made me believe them in spite of myself. I must tell you all about it sometime. I think we shall be able to pull off _Her Great Adventure_ just in time before the sheriff closes the doors.” He laughed good-humoredly at the situation, and handed her his cigarette case. Louisiana lighted a cigarette, then said abruptly: “I hope you won’t be angry with me. I’ve borrowed something of yours while you were away. Couldn’t wait to get permission.” “Honored that you found anything worth taking! What is it?” “I borrowed a new name for myself!” “I remember you said that we had ruined the old one for you!” he laughed. “You were sitting over there in the corner, too mad to cry, when you said it.” “After making such a guy of myself as Cordelia I couldn’t bear to see the old name on the billboards. Besides, I think I like this one better, anyway.” “What is it?” “I’m calling myself Melody—” Brainard’s expression changed suddenly; and he turned away. “You don’t like it,” she said coaxingly. “But it’s a pretty name!” “Melody what?” he asked with a touch of sternness.