One afternoon Elmscott walked down to my lodging, and carried me with him to see a famous comedy by Mr. Farquhar which was that day repeated by the Duke's players. The second act was begun by the time we got to the theatre, and the house, in spite of the heat, very crowded. For awhile I watched with some interest the packed company in the pit, the orange-girls hawking their baskets amongst them, the masked women in the upper boxes and the crowd of bloods upon the stage, who were continually shifting their positions, bowing to ladies in the side-boxes, ogling the actresses, and airing their persons and dress to the great detriment of the spectacle. Amongst these latter gentlemen I observed Lord Culverton combing the curls of his periwig with a little ivory comb so that a white cloud of powder hung about his head, and I was wondering how long his neighbours would put up with his impertinence when Elmscott, who was standing beside me, gave a start. "So he has come back," said he. I followed the direction of his gaze, and looked across the theatre. The Countess Lukstein and Mademoiselle Durette had just entered one of the lower boxes; behind them in the shadow was the figure of a man. "Who is it?" I asked. "An acquaintance of yours." The man came forward as Elmscott spoke to the front of the box, and seated himself by the side of Ilga. He was young, with a white face and very deep-set eyes, and though his appearance was in some measure familiar to me, I could neither remember his name nor the occasion of our meeting. "You have forgotten that night at the H. P.?" asked Elmscott. In a flash I recollected. "It is Marston," I said, and then after a pause: "And he knows the Countess!" "As well as you do; maybe better." "Then how comes it I have never seen him with her before?" "He left London conveniently before you came hither. We all thought that he had received his dismissal. It rather looks as if we were out of our reckoning, eh?" Marston and the Countess were engaged in some absorbing talk with their heads very close together, and a sharp pang of jealousy shot through me. "'Tis strange that she has never mentioned his name," I stammered. "Not so strange now that Hugh Marston has returned. Had he been no more than the discarded suitor we imagined him, then yes--you might expect her to boast to you of his devotion. 'Tis a way women have. But it seems rather that you are rivals." Rivals! The word was like a white light flashed upon my memories. I recalled Marston's half-forgotten prophecy. Was this the contest, I wondered, which he had foretold in the chill dawn at the tavern? Were we to come to grips with Ilga for the victor's prize? On the heels of the thought a swift fear slipped through my veins like ice. He had foretold more than the struggle; he had forecast its outcome and result.