“I suppose, Lane,” assumed a man who was airing the tails of his dress-coat before the fire—“I suppose we ought to take the hint and depart, but your friend is so devilish amusing I vote in favour of remaining.” “Sir,” said Wynne, with very great solemnity, “if I vow to be devilish dull, will you in return vote in favour of going?” The laugh came his way again; and he proceeded, “I make the suggestion with the most generous motives, for if you remain with your coat-tails so perilously near the flame we shall be constrained to the inevitable necessity of putting you out.” A youngish man, who was sitting in a corner, rose and shook the creases from his trousers and glanced at the clock. “I at least have to go,” he said. “You needn’t hurry away!” Wynne touched Quiltan on the arm. “Never stay a pioneer,” he implored. “‘For the rest shall follow after by the bones upon the way,’ to quote Kipling.” Ten minutes after his arrival he had cleared the room completely. The guests departed without apparent resentment: indeed, one lady gave Wynne her card, and said, “You positively must come and be amusing at one of my Thursdays.” Quiltan was wearing an expression of some annoyance when he returned after bidding farewell to the last of the company. “It is all very well,” he said; “but what precisely do you want?” Before answering Wynne took an easy inspection of the man before him. Lane Quiltan was tall, well built, and very pleasant to look upon. His features were attractive and regular, his voice and expression were compelling of confidence. At a glance Wynne summed him up as a “good fellow, and a good deal more.” “Well?” said Quiltan. “Primarily I have succeeded in doing what I wanted, and that was to convince you that I am no ordinary man. Secondly, I want to produce your play, ‘Witches,’ and if you will ask me to sit down for a minute I shall prove beyond argument why I am the only person who can do it justice.” Lane Quiltan gestured Wynne to a chair, and seated himself. “Fire away!” he said; “but I am afraid your chances are small. The play is already in the hands of Max Levis.” “I know.” “You seem pretty well acquainted with my affairs.” “On the contrary, I know nothing about them. I knew Levis had the play, because I borrowed his copy without permission while the fellow was feeding.” “Do you generally do things like that?” “I have no general practices. I act as the inclination suggests. In this case it is fortunate for both of us that I did.” “For both of us?” “Certainly, for I _mean_ to produce ‘Witches.’” Quiltan laughed. “At least you are persistent,” he said. “I am, and you are not. You take things too easily, because you’ve all this”—he made an embracing gesture. “You are too sure, Mr. Quiltan, I know. You write this play and direct it to Max Levis, and then, because fame and money are merely accessories in your life, you take no further interest in the matter.” “How do you arrive at that conclusion?”