Marita! So the initials were to be explained logically after all! M for Marita; W for Wrenn. The two engraved in that odd fashion which he could quite understand had been of her inspiration. “Will you believe,” he went on, steadying his voice, and keeping all excitement out of it, “that I am only trying to get at the facts? That I——” “Marita!” came the voice of the fat man sharply. “This gentleman”—he indicated Lucas—“has asked us to take supper with him and his friend. We will go?” “I should be delighted,” she said, in the mechanical way, which one felt was her way of accepting all pleasures in life, however they came. Blankley turned to them with his anxious little bow. “If you would pardon us——” he begged. “My wife must take off a little make-up, and then—may we join you at the stage door?” Barrison hated to let the woman out of his sight, but he scarcely knew how to refuse so simple a request. He was here as Teddy Lucas’ guest, and not in his professional capacity. So the two young men went out to the stage door to wait. They waited until, with a short laugh, the reporter showed his watch. Almost sixty minutes had gone by. “I don’t know just your game, my dear fellow,” he said, as he turned away. “But, for my part, I think you’ve been jolly well sold!” “How about you?” said Barrison, raw about his part of it, and yearning to be disagreeable. Lucas laughed. “I’m fixed all right,” he said amiably. “I’m going to write a peach of a story about the shock which led to the canceling of the Blankley engagement!” “What shock?” asked Barrison. Lucas looked at him in polite scorn. “My dear friend,” he said, in a tired voice, “didn’t you see Dukane in the box to-night?” Barrison jumped. “You mean you saw him?” he exclaimed. Lucas sighed heavily. “Saw him?” he said. “My dear fellow, I’m a reporter!” CHAPTER XXIV WHAT SYBIL HAD HIDDEN Jim Barrison was dog tired. He felt as though the past twenty-four hours had been twenty-four months; it scarcely seemed possible that the murder had been committed only the night before! Nevertheless, weary as he was he called up Lowry and told him of his evening’s experience. The inspector made some cryptic grunts at the other end of the wire, and ended up with a curt “I’ll see about it. Good night!” Barrison smiled, but felt slightly annoyed as he hung up the receiver. “‘I’ll see about it!’ As though he were Providence incarnate, and could wind up the moon and stars to go differently if he felt like it!” He was past more than a fleeting flash of resentment, however, and lost no time in wending his way homeward and to bed. Tara made a dignified offering of Scotch and sandwiches, but he waved him away sleepily, and tumbled in. So profound was the slumber into which he immediately fell, that the shrill ringing of the telephone hardly pierced his rest. If he heard it at all, it was only as a component part of his fitful dreams.