“It is written, 'Vain are man's efforts!'” “That's all very well, my friend. But the next time--” “Fate deals with time--not with next time! There is no certainty of any time but one. If you can do nothing I can do nothing. I still say, The seat back of G 77 to-night.” Tom Merriwether looked searchingly into the calm eyes before him. The baffled feeling returned; also, a great curiosity. What would the end be? At length he said, “Good day, sir.” He half hoped the man would volunteer some helpful remark. “Good day, sir,” said the man, with cold politeness. Tom went back to the Opera House and asked for somebody in authority to whom he might talk. They ushered him into Mr. Kirsch's presence. Mr. Kirsch, amiable by birth, temperament, and training, listened to him with much gravity; also, with a concern he tried to conceal, for it was too sad--a bright, clean-living, intensely likable chap like Tom, only heir to the Merriwether millions! Fearing a scene, he told Tom that he would speak to the ticket-takers in the lobby to be on the lookout for ticket H 77. Then he conferred with the emissary McWayne had sent, who thereupon was able to send in a most alarming report. The private secretary softened it as much as he could, and even dared to suggest to the chief that it might be a bet; but the little czar of the Pacific & Southwestern, who had never flinched under any strain or stress, grew visibly older as he heard that his son was offering thousands for an opera-seat--for the seat back of the double seven, seventh row. It could mean but one thing! Tom was so fortunate as to be standing beside the ticket-collector at the middle door of the main entrance when the owner of H 77 appeared. He was a fat man with a pink and shiny face, a close-cropped mustache, and huge pearl studs. The fat man was fortunately alone. “Sir,” said Tom, “I should like to speak a moment with you.” The man looked apprehensive. Then he said, “What is it about?” “For very strong personal reasons I should like to exchange tickets with you. I can give you G 126--every bit as good--on the other side of the aisle.” “Why should I change?” queried the shiny-faced man, suspiciously. “To oblige a very nice young lady and myself. Of course, if you prefer to be paid--” “I don't need money.” “Well, I'll pay you a hundred dollars for your ticket,” said Tom, coldly. The man shook his head from force of habit, in order that Tom might see he was offering too little. Then he said, recklessly: “It's yours, my friend. I have a pet charity. I'll give your money to it. Where's the hundred?” Tom took out a small roll of yellow bills, pulled off one, and handed it to the man with the pet charity, who took it, looked at it, nodded, put it in his pocket, gave the coupon to Tom, and then held out his right hand. “Where is the ticket for G 120 that you'll give me in place of mine?”