The actor was evidently in a black mood. He made no reference to the woman he had just left, but stood like an incarnate thundercloud beside his empty chair and addressed the others in a voice that was distinctly surly in spite of its naturally melodious inflections: “What are we waiting for, anyway? Hello, Barrison! Let’s get back to rehearsal.” “My own idea exactly,” said Dukane. “As soon as Miss Merivale returns——Ah, here she comes! Waiter——” “This is my party,” remonstrated Kitty. “Rubbish! I feed my flock. Barrison, you are of the flock, too, for the occasion. How do you like being associated with the profession?” The young detective laughed. Dukane looked at him with friendliness. The manager was a man who liked excellence of all kinds, even when it was out of his line. Barrison’s connection with the forthcoming play, “Boots and Saddles,” was a purely technical one. A vital point in the drama was the identification of a young soldier by his finger prints. Dukane never permitted the critics, professional or amateur, to catch him at a disadvantage in details of this kind. He knew Barrison slightly, having met him at the Lambs’ Club, and found him an agreeable fellow and a gentleman, as well as an acknowledged expert in his profession. So he had asked him to show the exact Bertillon procedure, that there might be no awkwardness or crudity in the development of the stage situation. Barrison himself was much entertained by this fleeting association with the seductive and mysterious world “behind the scenes.” His busy life left him small time for amusement, and for that reason he was the more interested when he came upon a bit of professional work which was two thirds play. He was a quiet-seeming chap, with innocent blue eyes, a lazy, pleasant manner, and a very disconcerting speed of action on occasion. His superiors said that half of his undoubted success came from his unexpectedness. It is certain that no one, on meeting him casually and socially, would ever have suspected that he was one of the most redoubtable, keen-brained, and steel-nerved detectives in all New York. The bill was paid, and every one was standing as Sybil came back. She was a little breathless and flushed, and Dukane, with a new note of approbation on his mental tablets, got a very good idea of what she would look like with a bit of make-up. “I told Mr. Altheimer,” she cried eagerly. “And he was quite cross—yes, really _quite_ cross! I was ever so flattered. I don’t believe he wanted me one bit till he thought there was a chance of Mr. Dukane’s wanting me.” She laughed joyously. “Very likely, very likely,” Dukane murmured. “Why—what is the matter, Miss Merivale?” For the pretty color had faded from Sybil’s sensitive face. Her big blue eyes looked suddenly dark and distressed. “What is the matter?” the manager repeated, watching her closely. She pulled herself together and managed a tremulous smile. “Some one is walking over my grave,” she said lightly.