“_And_ so forth—all right!” said Willie, closing the manuscript; for the final line of the play, the “tag,” as it is called, is never given at rehearsals. But Mortimer appeared to have forgotten this ancient superstition of the theater—seemed, indeed, to have forgotten everything and everybody save Sybil and the opportunity given him by the situation. He caught the girl in his arms and delivered the closing line in a voice that was broken with passion: “‘The decoration that I want is your love, _Lucille_—your kiss!’” And he pressed his lips upon hers. Sybil wrenched herself free, flaming with indignation. Crane, very white, started forward. Mortimer, white also, but with a very slight, very insolent smile, wheeled to meet him. But Dukane, moving with incredible swiftness, stood between them. His face was rather stern, but his voice was as level and equable as ever as he said quietly: “All right, all right—it is the business of the piece. But just a bit premature, Mortimer, don’t you think? Suppose we let Miss Merivale get her lines first? There will be plenty of time to work up the action later. Rehearsal dismissed, Willie. Have every one here at nine sharp to-morrow. What’s the matter with _you_?” For Willie Coster was sitting, pale and furious, by the prompt table, swearing under his breath with a lurid eloquence which would have astonished any one who did not know him of old. “Damn him!” he ended up, after he had exhausted his more picturesque and spectacular vocabulary. “He’s said the tag, gov’nor—he’s spoken the tag—and queered our show!” “Oh, rot, Willie!” said Dukane impatiently. “You’re too old a bird to believe in fairy tales of that sort!” But Willie shook his sandy, half-bald head and swore a little more, though more sorrowfully now. “You mark my words, there’ll never be any luck for this show,” he declared solemnly. “Never any luck! And when we open, gov’nor, you just remember what I said to-day!” CHAPTER IV THE LETTER OF WARNING “But isn’t it very early to stop rehearsal?” asked Barrison of John Carlton. “Of course it is. They ought to have gone over the whole act again, and lots of the scenes several times. That rescue stuff was rotten! But it’s an off day. Something’s wrong; I’m not sure what, though I _think_ I know. Oh, well, it’s all in the day’s work. Wait till you’ve seen as many of your plays produced as I have!” “It’s as mysterious to me as one of the lost arts of Egypt. I couldn’t think out a scene to save my neck.” “And yet,” said John Carlton reflectively, “a detective gets an immense amount of raw dramatic material in his business. He must. Now, right here in our own little happy family circle”—he waved an arm toward the stage—“there’s drama to burn! Can’t you see it—or are you fellows trained only to detect crime?” “How do you mean—drama?” queried Barrison, seeking safety in vagueness.