This sort of thing was nothing new for Mortimer. He was a man who attracted many types of women—some of them inexplicably, as it seemed to male onlookers—and whose loves were as fiery and as fleeting as falling stars. He had made love both to Kitty Legaye and Grace Templeton, playing them against each other not so much with skill as with a cavalier and amused mercilessness which might well have passed for skill. Now he was tired of the game, and, in a temporarily demoralized condition, was as so much tinder awaiting a new match. Then the youth and freshness of the girl unquestionably attracted him. Alan Mortimer was in his late thirties and had lived hard and fast. Like most men of his kind, he was willing enough to dally by the wayside with the more sophisticated women; but it was youth that pulled him hardest—girlhood, unspoiled and delicate. Dukane, more than a bit of a philosopher, speculated for a passing minute as to whether it was the inextinguishable urge toward purity and decency even in a rotten temperament, or merely the brutish wish that that which he intended to corrupt should be as nearly incorruptible as possible. But the manager permitted himself little meditation on the subject. He had no wish that others should surprise that expression upon the countenance of his new star. “Last act!” he called sharply. Willie Coster glanced at him in surprise. It was unusual for the “governor” to take an active hand in conducting rehearsals. “How about Miss Merivale?” he said. “Isn’t she to read _Lucille_?” “Here is the part.” Dukane took it from his pocket and dropped it on the prompt table. “Miss Templeton—er—turned it in this noon.” He suppressed a smile as he recalled the vigor with which Grace Templeton had thrown the little blue-bound booklet at him across his desk. He added: “Let Miss Merivale take the complete script home with her to-night; that will give her the best idea of the character.” For Dukane, unlike most of his trade, believed in letting his people use as much brain as God had given them in studying their rôles. “Then we start at the beginning of Act Four,” said Coster. “Here’s the part, Miss Merivale. Just read it through for this rehearsal, and get a line on the business and where you stand. Everybody, please! Miss Merivale, you’re not on till Mr. Mortimer’s line, ‘The girl I would give my life for.’ Then you enter up stage, right. Ready, Mr. Mortimer?” The company breathed one deep, unanimous sigh of relief. They had feared that the advent of a new _Lucille_ would mean going back and doing the whole morning’s work over again. But Dukane was—yes, he really _was_ almost human—for a manager! There were three other persons who had seen Mortimer’s self-betraying look as his eyes rested on Sybil Merivale’s eager young beauty. One was Norman Crane, one was Kitty Legaye, and one was the detective, Jim Barrison.