From where she sat Fillmore had all the appearance of a man practising the steps of a new dance, and sheer curiosity as to what he would do next kept Sally watching in silence. First, he moved in a resolute sort of way towards the front door; then, suddenly stopping, scuttled back. This movement he repeated twice, after which he stood in deep thought before making another dash for the door, which, like the others, came to an abrupt end as though he had run into some invisible obstacle. And, finally, wheeling sharply, he bustled off down the street and was lost to view. Sally could make nothing of it. If Fillmore had taken the trouble to come in a taxi-cab, obviously to call upon her, why had he abandoned the idea at her very threshold? She was still speculating on this mystery when the telephone-bell rang, and her brother's voice spoke huskily in her ear. “Sally?” “Hullo, Fill. What are you going to call it?” “What am I... Call what?” “The dance you were doing outside here just now. It's your own invention, isn't it?” “Did you see me?” said Fillmore, upset. “Of course I saw you. I was fascinated.” “I--er--I was coming to have a talk with you. Sally...” Fillmore's voice trailed off. “Well, why didn't you?” There was a pause--on Fillmore's part, if the timbre of at his voice correctly indicated his feelings, a pause of discomfort. Something was plainly vexing Fillmore's great mind. “Sally,” he said at last, and coughed hollowly into the receiver. “Yes.” “I--that is to say, I have asked Gladys... Gladys will be coming to see you very shortly. Will you be in?” “I'll stay in. How is Gladys? I'm longing to see her again.” “She is very well. A trifle--a little upset.” “Upset? What about?” “She will tell you when she arrives. I have just been 'phoning to her. She is coming at once.” There was another pause. “I'm afraid she has bad news.” “What news?” There was silence at the other end of the wire. “What news?” repeated Sally, a little sharply. She hated mysteries. But Fillmore had rung off. Sally hung up the receiver thoughtfully. She was puzzled and anxious. However, there being nothing to be gained by worrying, she carried the breakfast things into the kitchen and tried to divert herself by washing up. Presently a ring at the door-bell brought her out, to find her sister-in-law. Marriage, even though it had brought with it the lofty position of partnership with the Hope of the American Stage, had effected no noticeable alteration in the former Miss Winch. As Mrs. Fillmore she was the same square, friendly creature. She hugged Sally in a muscular manner and went on in the sitting-room. “Well, it's great seeing you again,” she said. “I began to think you were never coming back. What was the big idea, springing over to England like that?” Sally had been expecting the question, and answered it with composure. “I wanted to help Mr. Faucitt.” “Who's Mr. Faucitt?”