The boy babbled, “Don’t do it!... Oh, damn it! You’ve been working for this place for years and--It’s not worth it! Look here, let me go talk to this damned woman!” “No. I’ve got some pride left, son. You shan’t go near her. You go down to the farm and stay with the folks.” Gurdy wanted nothing more. All the pressmen and underlings were puzzled by Mark’s maintenance of the English comedy on the road. It was not making money. The theatrical weeklies had warned New York how bad was “Todgers Intrudes.” Gurdy drove his motor down to Fayettesville on Saturday, had a fit of shame and hurried back on Sunday. On the face of the Walling the dead electric bulbs told the news, “Mark Walling Presents Todgers Intrudes With Cosmo Rand” and Mark’s treasurer came out of the white doors to expostulate. “I don’t get this. Your uncle’s playin’ for a dead loss, Mr. Bernamer. It’s no damn good.” “Where is he?” “Went up to New Haven yesterday. ‘Captain Salvador’ played there last night. Say, what’s the idea? This ‘Todgers’ ain’t done a thing but eat up money. Every one knows it’s a frost!” The man worried openly. There could be no explanation, Gurdy saw. The critics would jeer. Mark’s friends would chaff him. The boy patted his wheel and asked, “What night does it open?” “Wednesday, like ‘Captain Salvador’ was to. Honest, Mr. Bernamer, this is hell!” Gurdy drove off to a restaurant for dinner and here a critic stopped him on the sill to ask whether Mark had gone “quite, quite mad?” Monday was barren anguish, watching Mark’s face. “Captain Salvador” would play in Hartford and Providence all week. On Tuesday there was a rehearsal of “Todgers Intrudes” and Gurdy found a black motor initialed C. B. when he came to the Walling. Workmen were polishing the brass of the outer doors and the programs for tomorrow night were ready. Everything was ready for the sick farce. On Wednesday morning Mark ate breakfast with heroic grins and talked of playing golf in the afternoon. But he hadn’t slept well. His eyes were flecked with red. Bone showed under his cheeks. His black had an air of candid mourning. “The best joke’d be if the damned thing made a hit,” he said. “I think that would be a little too ironical,” Gurdy snapped. “This is what you’d call ironical, ain’t it? Well, I’m going down to the office for a minute. Don’t come. Send for the horses and we’ll go riding about eleven.” He walked to the Walling, was halted a dozen times and found the antechamber full of people. Some had appointments. He sat talking for an hour and then started downstairs. But he saw Cosmo Rand on the white floor of the vestibule, slim in a grey furred coat, reading a newspaper. The blue walls of the stair seemed to press Mark’s head. He turned back into the office and sent for his house manager. When the man came Mark said, “I’m not going to be here tonight, Billy. Tell anybody that asks I’m sick as a dog and couldn’t come.” “All right. Say, sir, would you mind telling me just why--”