Ex-Senator Phelps took the envelope with a careless air, and no premonition chilled him as he stepped back into the light of the hall and tore it open. As he glanced at the single sheet of paper, however, his face turned ghastly, and he reeled against a small statue that stood on a pedestal, throwing it to the floor and breaking it. “After all these years!” he muttered hoarsely to himself. Then his eyes fell upon the amazed face of his valet, and, as he crushed the letter in his hand, he made a great effort to pull himself together. “I—I shall not be going out, after all,” he said, in a curiously dead voice. “I’m not—feeling well.” Every year of the sixty seemed to weigh heavily upon the ex-senator as he pushed open the door of the room on the left. His feet dragged across the thick carpet so that he stumbled, and when he dropped into a chair, buried his face in his hands. * * * * * The Forty-second Street Theater had been famous for years as the home of light comedy of the more brilliant sort. That night was to witness a new production, for which great things were expected—for had the play not been written by one of America’s cleverest and most experienced playwrights, and staged by a production wizard? And was not the star Harold Lumsden? Already the cheaper parts of the house were packed, and the orchestra was filling up. Here and there a pair of white shoulders gleamed in one of the boxes which would soon be filled—for it was a foregone conclusion that the S.R.O. sign would have to be displayed in the lobby that night. Harold Lumsden himself was peering through a peephole in the curtain at that moment, idly surveying the nucleus of what he knew would prove to be an unusually brilliant first-night audience. For years he had enjoyed great prestige, and this was to be his first appearance following a successful invasion of London, which had added greatly to his laurels. “This is going to be some night, Harold!” his manager remarked impressively, coming up from behind and putting his hand on the star’s shoulder. “Dressed early, didn’t you?” “Yes, I felt restless,” was the reply. “Hanged if I know why. This sort of thing ought to be an old story to me by this time, if it’s ever going to be.” As he turned about to face the portly manager, he noticed an envelope in the latter’s hand. Knowing the manager’s absent-mindedness, he inquired: “That letter isn’t for me, is it?” “Why, yes, it is,” was the reply. “I had forgotten it for a moment. It’s marked ‘Urgent,’ but I suppose it’s only from some friend of yours—or, more likely, some friend of a friend—who aspires to the deadhead class.” “Probably,” Harold Lumsden agreed, as he glanced at the handwriting for a moment, and then ripped the envelope open. “We haven’t needed to ‘paper’ our houses for the last few seasons, have we, old man? What’s this! Great heavens!”