Meanwhile, Cherry and Peter had their first opportunity to speak to each other alone. It occurred to neither of them that it was strange to find this chance in the rustling darkness of the big vaudeville house, with several thousand of persons pressing all about them. To both the thirst for speech was a burning necessity, and it was with an almost dizzy sense of relief that Cherry turned to him with her first words. "Peter, I don't dare say much! Can you hear me?" "Perfectly!" he answered, looking at his folded program. "Peter, I've been thinking--about our plan, I mean! Martin plans to go on Monday. But something has happened since I saw you this morning, something that makes a difference! I had a letter, a letter from some woman connecting his name with another woman, a Hatty Woods--she's notorious in Red Creek--and this Joe King crowd that he went with--I don't know who wrote the letter, or why she wrote," she said, hastily, as Peter interpolated a question. "And I don't care! I haven't spoken to Martin about it. But I've been thinking about it all day. And of course it makes a difference to us--to you and me. As far as Martin goes, I am free now; what is justice to Martin, and kindness to Martin, will never count with me any more!" Peter wasted no words. His face was thoughtful. "He goes Monday," he said. "We can go Sunday." "Does the boat sail Sunday?" "I am sure of it. This is Thursday night. Your suitcase I checked again yesterday. Was it only yesterday?" "That's all!" "We would have been on the train to-night, Cherry, flying toward New Orleans!" Her small hand gripped his in the darkness. "If we only were!" he heard her breathe. He turned to her, so exquisite in her distress. Her breast was rising and falling quickly. "Patience, sweetheart!" he said. "Patience for only a few days more! To-morrow I'll make the arrangements. Sunday is only two days off." "Sunday will be day after day after to-morrow," she said whimsically. "Is Sunday the best day?" he questioned, thoughtfully. "Oh, much the best!" Cherry said, her whole face glowing suddenly. "You see, it's already arranged that I come in to the Olivers' Saturday night, and help them get ready for their tea on Sunday. Alix is to stay in the valley, and play the organ Sunday morning, and come in with Martin at ten." "I suppose I'll have to come when they do!" he mused. "But isn't there that breakfast at the club on Sunday?" Cherry asked. "Porter's breakfast--yes. But I'm not going to that," Peter said, stupidly. "Couldn't you say that you were?" she supplied, simply. "Yes, by George!" he agreed, brightening. "That fixes me! But now how about you?" "Why, I am at the Olivers'!" she reminded him. "All I have to do is walk out of the house at ten!" Their eyes met in a wild rush of triumph and hope. "This time we shall do it!" Peter said. "Your suitcase I'll have. You have money?" "Oh, plenty!" "Martin thinks you go with him Monday, eh?"