He had smiled kindly and De Medici, unable to dissemble his cat-like nervousness, had blurted out: “I find it almost impossible to wait.” “The guests will be here around eleven,” Ballau had answered. “Go walk around till then and don’t get run over or fall down any manholes.” Entering the theater, De Medici looked around the back stage quickly for a glimpse of Florence. The wings were crowded with actors and actresses waiting the rise of the third-act curtain. “Where’s Miss Ballau?” he inquired of Cort, the stage manager. Cort, a sour-looking man with the disillusions and sophistications of his profession stamped on his face, turned angrily. “Oh, hello!” he said, noticing De Medici. “We’ve had the devil of a time.” De Medici looked at him uncomfortably. “Miss Ballau had to leave,” went on Cort. “Leave! What do you mean?” Cort swore softly. “We’ve had a time of it for the last fifteen minutes. Miss Ballau got a telephone call at the end of the second act. It knocked her out. Refused to go on with the show. Said it was impossible. And we’ve gotten Fedya Gratin, the understudy, to finish the last act.” De Medici listened in amazement. “A telephone call,” he repeated. “Where did she go?” “I don’t know,” growled Cort. “All I know is she left us in the devil of a mess ... and lit out of here like a streak, make-up on and everything. Wouldn’t stop to change or listen to reason....” “Did she say anything?” De Medici interrupted. The news had left him unaccountably sick at heart. He made an effort to remove the fears that were clouding his thought and to conjure up a logical reason—a calm reason—for her departure. He turned desperately to the manager, who had started to move off. “Wait a minute. What did she say on the telephone?” “Nothing,” answered Cort. “I couldn’t get what it was about. She said, ‘Yes. Yes. Oh, God!’ hung up and was out of here before anybody knew what had happened.” De Medici dropped the man’s arm and hurried from the theater. In the dark alley he paused and stared nervously about him. The darkness frightened him. Strange glints were in his eyes. He ran his long fingers over his forehead and shuddered. Something had happened! He sat thinking as the cab hurried him to the Ballau apartment.... “She was crying this morning after our ride ... there was something curious about Ballau ... he wanted to get rid of me....” A sense of relief came to him when the cab drew up before the ornate apartment building in Park Avenue. As he stepped out he noticed quickly that the scene was calm, that inside the marble lobby the stiff figure of the doorman stood—a symbol of quietude and elegance. Entering the building, he nodded to the man at the door and walked quickly to the elevator at the rear of the vestibule. As he approached, the filigreed door of the self-operating elevator cage clicked and was thrown open.