Barrison made his way through a labyrinth of sets to where Dukane, against all precedent, was standing watching the performance from the wings. “You ought to be in front,” the detective told him reprovingly. “Indeed!” Dukane looked at him with tired scorn. Then he fished a paper out of his waistcoat pocket. “Read this. It came this afternoon.” The new letter of warning ran: No man can run more than a certain course. When you look with love at the woman who claims your attention to-night, do you not think what might happen if a ghost appeared at your feast? You have called me wild and visionary in the past. Will you call me that when this night is over? Having read it and noted that the writing was the same as the previous one, Jim asked: “Have you shown this to Mortimer?” “Am I an idiot?” demanded Dukane pertinently. “No, my prince of detectives, I have not. I have troubles enough without putting my star on the rampage. Just the same, I think it is as well to be prepared for anything and everything. What do you think?” Unwillingly Barrison told him that he was not entirely happy in his mind concerning Miss Templeton. He asked minutely as to where Mortimer was going to stand during various parts of the play, notably during the dark scene in the last act. That, to his mind, offered rather too tempting a field for uncontrolled temperaments. “Ah!” said Dukane once more, looking at him. “You have found out something, eh? Well, no matter. Whether you suspect something or not, you are going to help, you are going to be on guard. Miss Templeton, now—do you think it would be a good thing for you to go and spend the evening with her in her box?” Barrison did not think quite that, but he consented to retire to Miss Templeton’s box for at least two acts. The which he did, feeling most nervous all the time, as though he ought to be somewhere else. Miss Templeton was most agreeable as a companion, and most calm. Once in a while his eyes would become glued to the beaded bag hanging on the back of her chair. Just before the last act he fled, and sent Tony Clay to take his place on a pretext. He did not think he could stand it any longer. Behind, he found a curious excitement prevailing. No one had been told anything or warned in any way, yet a subtle undercurrent of suspense was strongly to be felt. There is no stranger phenomenon than this psychic transmission of emotion without speech. To-night, behind the scenes at the Mirror Theater, the whole company seemed waiting for something. Sybil Merivale seemed particularly nervous. “I can’t think what has got into me!” she said with rather a shaky little laugh. “I wasn’t nearly so upset at the beginning of the play, and usually one gets steadier toward the end of a first night. I’m doing all right, am I not?” “You’re splendid!” Kitty Legaye said cordially. “I’m proud of you! You have no change here, have you?”