“However,” went on the author, leading the way out of the box and through the communicating door between the front and back of the house, “it’s none of my business—though I’ll admit it entertains me, intrigues me, if you like. I _can_ talk something besides slang. I’m nothing but a poor rat of an author, but if I were a grand and glorious detective with an idle hour or so to put in, I’d watch that combination. I’m too poor and too honest to afford hunches, as a rule, but I’ve got one now, and it’s to the effect that there’ll be more melodrama behind the scenes in ‘Boots and Saddles’ than there ever will be in the show itself!” Though Barrison said nothing in reply, he privately agreed with the playwright. Nothing very startling had happened, to be sure, yet he was acutely conscious of something threatening or at least electric in the air—a tension made up of a dozen small trifles which might or might not be important. It would be difficult to analyze the impression made upon him, but he would have had to be much less susceptible to atmosphere than he was not to have felt that the actors in this new production were playing parts other than those given them by Carlton, and that they stood in rather singular and interesting relation to each other. Mortimer infatuated with Sybil Merivale; Kitty Legaye, he strongly suspected, in love with Mortimer; Crane wildly and youthfully jealous; Miss Templeton in the dangerous mood of a woman scorned and an actress supplanted! It looked like the makings of a very neat little drama, as John Carlton had had the wit to see. Barrison, however, was still inclined to look upon the whole affair as something of a farce; it was diverting, but not absorbing. There was nothing about it, as yet, to quicken his professional interest. He did, to be sure, recall Grace Templeton’s wicked look in the restaurant, and had a passing doubt as to what she was likely to do next; but he brushed it away lightly enough, reminding himself that players were emotional creatures and that they probably took it out in intensity of temperament—and temper! They were not nearly so likely actually to commit any desperate deeds as those who outwardly or habitually were more calm and conservative. But something happened at the stage door which disturbed this viewpoint. When they crossed the stage the company was scattering right and left. Miss Legaye was just departing, looking manifestly out of sorts; Sybil and young Crane were talking together with radiant faces and evident oblivion of their whereabouts; Mortimer was nowhere to be seen. Carlton had stopped to speak to Willie Coster, so Barrison made his way out alone. He found Dukane standing by the “cage” occupied by the doorkeeper, with an envelope in his hand. “When did this come, Roberts?” he said. “About twenty minutes ago, sir. You told me not to interrupt rehearsals, and the boy said there was no answer.” “A messenger boy?”