It is rather important to understand this general plan. Make a note, also, that Mortimer’s big entrance in the “dark scene,” or, rather, at the close of it, must be made up a short flight of steps; that the scene was what is called a “box set”—a solid, four-walled inclosure; that it was but a step from the door of his own dressing room, and that the spot where he had to stand waiting for his entrance cue was in direct line, from one angle, with the stage door, and from another with the door communicating with the front of the house. This wait would be a fairly long one, since, when the dark scene was on, no lights of any sort would be permitted save perhaps the merest glimmer to avoid accidents. The actors were all expected to leave their lighted dressing rooms and have their doors closed before the melodramatic crash upon the stage told them that the property lantern had been duly smashed and that blackness must henceforth prevail until the “rescue.” “All ready?” came Willie Coster’s anxious voice. “The act is on. Miss Merivale, don’t stumble on those steps when you are trying to escape. You nearly twisted your ankle the other night. This is a rotten thing to stage. Lucky Carlton made it about as short as he possibly could. Playing a whole act practically in the dark! Fred, put that light out over there; it might cast a shadow.” “’Tain’t the dark scene yet!” growled the harassed sceneshifter addressed. He put it out, however. “My cue in a moment!” whispered Sybil. “I must run! Where are my two deep-dyed ruffians who drag me on?” “Present!” said one of them, Norman Crane, laughing under his breath. They hurried down to their entrance, where the other “deep-dyed ruffian” awaited them. Kitty Legaye, in a vivid scarlet satin evening coat, stole cautiously out of her dressing room. “Shut that door!” commanded Willie in a sharp undertone. “No lights, Miss Legaye!” Parry closed it immediately. “And now, Mortimer!” added the stage manager in an exasperated mutter. “Of course he’ll let it go until the last moment, and then breeze out like a hurricane with his dressing-room door wide open and enough light to——What is it?” And he turned to hear a hasty question from his assistant. Kitty came close to Barrison and whispered beseechingly: “Do, please, tell Mr. Dukane that I only went home because I really did feel ill. It’s—it’s been quite a hard evening for me.” Her brown eyes looked large and rather piteous. Barrison was sorry for her. She seemed such a plucky little creature, and so glitteringly, valiantly gay. Her red wrap all at once struck him as symbolic of the little woman herself. She was defiantly bright, like the coat. If her heart ached as well as her head, if she really was disappointed, hurt, unhappy—why, neither she nor the scarlet coat proposed to be anything but gay!