For the next two hours, Standish, who was on one of his periodical fits of comedy, stuck to his piano, and dominated the evening. He played grotesquely inappropriate melodies, he commanded singing, once he stopped the show and with the assistance of a dozen recruits put on the burlesque of an amateur night at a music-hall. He made the occasion a historical event, and when at last it was over, and the guests were filing out to the lobby, he came to Henry and held out his hand. "Big-time, Henry, big-time," he said. "See? They're all with you." Henry cleared his throat. "You're a peach, Bob. You got it up." "Oh, it wasn't anything." Standish's cloak of comedy had fallen away; he looked as lazy, and as innocent and childlike as ever. "Before I go--I had a letter today from one of the big movie circuit crowd. They'll pay you thirty-seven thousand five hundred cash for the Orpheum. I've got a certified check for a thousand to bind the bargain. Want it?" Henry didn't even glance at it. "Put it back in your pocket, Bob. I wouldn't sell it for ten times that--not after tonight." His friend smiled very faintly. "It's a good price, if you care to get out from under. Between you and me, I think it's more than the Orpheum's worth." "Don't want it," said Henry gruffly. Standish gazed with vast innocence at Anna. "Third and last chance, Henry. Otherwise, I'll mail it back tonight. Just a few hours from now this place, right where we're standing, 'll look like a sardine-can come to life, and you'll be taking in money hand over fist, and you'll be branded forever as--" "Oh, shut up," said Henry, affectionately. * * * * * Through the jostling, good-natured crowd which blocked the sidewalk in front of the Orpheum Theatre, that Sunday at two o'clock, a policeman in uniform pushed his way to the ticket-booth. "Where's the manager?" The ticket-seller bobbed her head backwards. "First door on the left." The policeman stalked through the lobby, and found the door; knocked belligerently, and stepped inside. "You the manager? Well, there ain't goin' to be no show today, see?" Henry jumped to his feet. "What's that?" "You heard what I said. No show. Close up your theatre and call it a day." Henry turned, for moral support, to his wife: she had already hurried to his side. "What's all this, Mr. Officer?" she asked, unsteadily. "It's police orders; that's what it is, young lady." She seized Henry's hand. "But--but when we've--why, you don't really _mean_ it, do you?" He dug into his pocket, and produced a tattered, dog-eared pamphlet, folded open at one of the early pages. He read aloud, slowly: "'Whosoever shall fail in the strict observance o' the Lord's Day by any unseemly act, speech, or carriage, or whosoever shall engage in any manner o' diversion or profane occupation for profit--'"