"A matinée!" he repeated. "What on--" Then suddenly light seemed to dawn on him. "Why, of course, that girl--Molly Monk--I had forgotten her." He paused. "Do you think she can be of any help?" Tony walked to the door. "She might lend us a sheet of note-paper," he said. "Anyhow I mean to ask her." If there is one profession in this world more likely than the rest to induce a certain slight cynicism with regard to human motives, it is probably that of being stage door-keeper at the Gaiety Theatre. When therefore a quarter of an hour later, Tony presented his card at the open pigeon-hole with a request that he might see Miss Monk immediately on a matter of urgent importance, the uniformed gentleman inside contented himself with a weary smile. "I'll send it up, sir," he remarked, "but between ourselves it ain't no good. The Guv'nor don't allow visitors in the dressin' rooms--not while the show's on." Tony, who had been fingering a sovereign, laid it down beside the card. "What a pity!" he replied thoughtfully. At the sight of the gold piece the janitor's world hardened face lit up with an expression that was almost beautiful. "I'll take it up meself, sir," he observed hastily, climbing down from his stool. "Of course if it's a matter o' urgent importance--" He emerged from his rabbit hutch, card in hand, and pushing open a swing-door disappeared from view up a winding flight of stairs. After a decent interval he returned with the air of one who has triumphed over great odds. "S'orl right," he remarked in a confidential whisper. "She's orf now, sir. You foller me, sir." He conducted Tony up the stairs, to the first landing, where he tapped cautiously on the second door he came to. It was opened at once by a secretive looking lady, who appeared to be lunching on pins, and at the same moment Molly's voice remarked with its usual pleasant distinctness: "If that's you, Tony, come along in." Complying with the request Tony found himself in a small, brightly lit apartment, the principal furniture of which appeared to be a vast mirror, a long narrow dressing-table, a comfortable easy-chair, and an inspiriting collection of foamy undergarments, suspended from a row of pegs. In the chair sat Molly. She was dressed in the simple and practical costume of a milkmaid, as visualized by producers of musical comedy. It consisted of a charmingly décolletté creation of white muslin and blue ribbon, completed by a large "baby" hat, a skirt that just reached her knees, white silk stockings and high-heeled shoes. "Oh, Tony!" she exclaimed; "thank goodness you've come." Then turning to the dresser she added kindly: "You can shove off, Jane. I want to talk to him alone." Acting on the hint the lady of the pins withdrew from the room, and hardly waiting until the door had closed behind her, Molly jumped up from the chair.