How it happened I don't quite know, but Mr. Marx had his own way. It was the close of the act and everyone was applauding Mabel Fay's song. She stood facing the house, bowing and smiling, and her laughing eyes met mine for a moment, then rested upon the flowers which I was holding and finally glanced back into mine full of mute invitation. I raised my hand. Mr. Marx whispered, "Now!" And the bouquet was lying at her feet. She picked it up gracefully, shot a coquettish glance up towards me, and then the curtain fell, and I sat back in my chair, feeling quite convinced that I had made an utter fool of myself. About the middle of the third act Mr. Marx rose and walked to the door. Holding it open in his hand for a moment, he paused and looked round. "I am going to leave you for a few minutes," he said. "I shall not be very long." Then he went and I heard him walk down the corridor. An hour passed and he did not return. The last act came, the curtain fell and, with a sigh of regret, I rose to go. Still he had not come back. I put on my coat and lingered about, uncertain what to do. Then there came a knock at the box-door, but, instead of Mr. Marx, an attendant entered, and handed me a note. I tore it open and read, hastily scrawled in pencil: "I am round at the back of the house. Come to me. The bearer will show you the way.--M." CHAPTER XVII. BEHIND THE SCENES AT THE TORCHESTER THEATRE. I followed my guide to the end of the corridor, through a door which he unlocked and carefully locked again, and past the side of the deserted stage, on which I paused for a moment to gaze with wonder at the array of ropes and pulleys and runners which the carpenters were busy putting to rights, and at the canvas-covered, unlit auditorium, which looked now--strange transformation--like the mouth of some dark cavern. After picking our way carefully, we reached a door on which was painted "Manager's Room." A voice from inside bade us enter and I was ushered in. Mr. Marx was seated in an easy-chair, talking somewhat earnestly to a slim, dark young man, who was leaning against the mantelpiece. An older man was writing at a table at the other end of the room, with his back to the door. Mr. Marx welcomed me with a nod, and introduced me briefly to the young man by his side: "Mr. Morton--Mr. Isaacs. Mr. Isaacs is the manager of the company who are playing here." Mr. Isaacs turned an unmistakably Jewish face towards me and extended his hand. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Morton! Hope you liked the performance," he said, with a smile, which disclosed the whole of a very white set of teeth. "Very fair, wasn't it? Ha, ha, ha!" I replied that I had enjoyed it exceedingly, and looked at Mr. Marx, wondering how long he meant to stay. I had taken a sudden but strong dislike to Mr. Isaacs. "Shall you be very long, Mr. Marx?" I asked. "I have sent for the carriage," he answered; "it will be here in ten minutes."