“I'm not Wellbourne himself,” he went on, in answer to my look; “I am only his spirit. Have you ever tested that belief the Hindoos hold: that a man may leave his body, wander at will for a certain period, remembering only to return ere the thread connecting him with flesh and blood be stretched to breaking point? It is quite correct. I often lock the door of my lodging, leave myself behind, wander a free Spirit.” He pulled from his pocket a handful of loose coins and looked at them. “The thread that connects us, I am sorrow to say, is wearing somewhat thin,” he sighed; “I shall have to be getting back to him before long--concern myself again with his troubles, follies. It is somewhat vexing. Life is really beautiful, when one is dead.” “What was the trouble?” I enquired. “Haven't you heard?” he replied. “Tom died five weeks ago, quite suddenly, of syncope. We had none of us any idea.” So Norah was alone in the world. I rose to my feet. The slowly moving speck had grown into a thin, dark streak; minute by minute it took shape and form. “By the way, I have to congratulate you,” said Wellbourne. “Your opera looked like being a big thing when I left London. You didn't sell outright, I hope?” “No,” I answered. “Hodgson never expressed any desire to buy.” “Lucky for you,” said Wellbourne. I reached London the next evening. Passing the theatre on my way to Queen's Square, it occurred to me to stop my cab for a few minutes and look in. I met the low comedian on his way to his dressing-room. He shook me warmly by the hand. “Well,” he said, “we're pulling them in. I was right, you see, 'Give me plenty of opportunity.' That's what I told you, didn't I? Come and see the piece. I think you will agree with me that I have done you justice.” I thanked him. “Not at all,” he returned; “it's a pleasure to work, when you've got something good to work on.” I paid my respects to the leading lady. “I am so grateful to you,” said the leading lady. “It is so delightful to play a real live woman, for a change.” The tenor was quite fatherly. “It is what I have been telling Hodgson for years,” he said, “give them a simple human story.” Crossing the stage, I ran against Marmaduke Trevor. “You will stay for my scene,” he urged. “Another night,” I answered. “I have only just returned.” He sank his voice to a whisper. “I want to talk to you on business, when you have the time. I am thinking of taking a theatre myself--not just now, but later on. Of course, I don't want it to get about.” I assured him of my secrecy. “If it comes off, I want you to write for me. You understand the public. We will talk it over.” He passed onward with stealthy tread. I found Hodgson in the front of the house. “Two stalls not sold and six seats in the upper circle,” he informed me; “not bad for a Thursday night.” I expressed my gratification.