“No; I am to see him to-night,” said Barrison. “And—Miss Legaye, I must tell you”—he hesitated, for he was a kind-hearted fellow—“I ought to warn you that you may have an unpleasant ordeal ahead of you. Your sister and her husband are—coming back to New York.” She was silent for half a minute. “Thank you,” she said. “You have been very good to—warn me. I don’t think you will ever know how glad I am to have met you this afternoon, Mr. Barrison.” He did not pretend to understand her. As they had gone several blocks, he said good night with more warmth and consideration than he had ever expected to feel for Kitty Legaye, and, alighting from the taxi, made his way directly to his rooms. He found Willie Coster awaiting him there, with his hair standing on end, and an expression of blank and rather appalled astonishment on his mild countenance. “Say!” he cried, as Jim entered. “I went to call on the gov’nor this afternoon, and—he’s sailed for London to put on three or four plays! And I’m out of a job! Now, what do you think of that?” Barrison stood still in the center of the room and nodded his head slowly. So Dukane had heard the warnings in the air, and had slipped away! Well, it was only a matter of time! They had nothing criminal against him, but—the story would not make a pleasant one, as noised abroad about the greatest theatrical manager of America. Eventually, it would come out. However, meanwhile he had gone. He was sorry for Willie; sorry for the hundreds of actors and other employees who would suffer. It looked from what Willie had to tell that Dukane’s exit had been a complete and clean-cut one. He had closed up his office, put his road companies in subordinate hands, and—cleared out. “And I—who have been with him all these years—don’t even get a company!” complained poor Willie. Barrison remembered what Dukane had said to him about not being able to afford to consider any man personally. For some reason he had chosen to forget Willie Coster, and, true to form, he had forgotten him! Tony Clay came in then. It was half past seven, nearly an hour later, when Tara reminded them politely of dinner. “We’ll go out somewhere,” said Jim, rising and stretching himself. “You two shall be my guests. I feel that this case is practically over, and when I’m through with a case I feel like Willie after a first night—I want to relax. I don’t want—at least not necessarily—to get drunk, but I do want to——” Oddly enough, it was Tony Clay who interrupted him in a queer, abrupt sort of voice. He sounded like a man who hated to speak, but who was driven to it in spite of himself. “Look here, you fellows,” he said, “don’t let’s go out for dinner to-night.” “Why not?” demanded Barrison, in astonishment. “I thought you were always on the first call for a feed, Tony!” “Oh, well, maybe I am. And—I know you think me an awful duffer in lots of ways, Jim, but—I have a hunch that perhaps——” “That what?” demanded Jim, as he paused.