At the gate he suffered a momentary regret at an error of tactics committed the evening before. Instead of leaving the lot by the office he should have left by the gate. He should have strolled to this exit in a leisurely manner and stopped, just inside the barrier, for a chat with the watchman; a chat, beginning with the gift of a cigar, which should have impressed his appearance upon that person. He should have remarked casually that he had had a hard day on Stage Number Four, and must now be off to a good night’s rest because of the equally hard day to-morrow. Thus he could now have approached the gate with confidence and passed freely in, with a few more pleasant words to the watchman who would have no difficulty in recalling him. But it was vain to wish this. For all the watchman knew this young man had never been beyond the walls of the forbidden city, nor would he know any reason why the besieger should not forever be kept outside. He would fix that next time. He approached the window of the casting office with mingled emotions. He did not hope to find his friend again stricken with headache, but if it chanced that she did suffer he hoped to be the first to learn of it. Was he not fortified with the potent Eezo wafers, and a new menthol pencil, even with an additional remedy of tablets that the druggist had strongly recommended? It was, therefore, not with any actual, crude disappointment that he learned of his friend’s perfect well-being. She smiled pleasantly at him, the telephone receiver at one ear. “Nothing to-day, dear,” she said and put down the instrument. Yes, the headache was gone, vanquished by his remedies. She was fine, thank you. No, the headaches didn’t come often. It might be weeks before she had another attack. No, of course she couldn’t be certain of this. And indeed she would be sure to let him know at the very first sign of their recurrence. He looked over his patient with real anxiety, a solicitude from the bottom of which he was somehow unable to expel the last trace of a lingering hope that would have dismayed the little woman--not hope, exactly, but something almost like it which he would only translate to himself as an earnest desire that he might be at hand when the dread indisposition did attack her. Just now there could be no doubt that she was free from pain. He thanked her profusely for her courtesy of the day before. He had seen wonderful things. He had learned a lot. And he wanted to ask her something, assuring himself that he was alone in the waiting room. It was this: did she happen to know--was Miss Beulah Baxter married? The little woman sighed in a tired manner. “Baxter married? Let me see.” She tapped her teeth with the end of a pencil, frowning into her vast knowledge of the people beyond the gate. “Now, let me think.” But this appeared to be without result. “Oh, I really don’t know; I forget. I suppose so. Why not? She often is.”