So here was the great night! Down there on the stage, in a few minutes now, Grace Derring, whose life had twisted so painfully close to his, would begin enacting the play she and Neuerman had rebuilt from his own inspired outburst. Up here in the gallery, across the aisle, one row down, sat at this moment, the girl who had unwittingly inspired him to write it; She was smiling happily now, that girl. She did not know that the original play--_The Trufiler_ as he had conceived and written it--was aimed straight at herself. It was nothing if not a picture of the irresponsible, selfish bachelor girl who by her insistence on “living her own life” wrecks the home of her parents. Peter's mouth set rather grimly as he thought of this now. As he saw it, Sue had done just that. Suddenly--he was looking from behind his hand at her shapely head; her hair had grown to an almost manageable length--a warm thought fluttered to life in his heart. Perhaps it wasn't, even yet, too late! Perhaps enough of his original message had survived the machinations of Neuerman and Grace Derring to strike through and touch this girl's heart--sober her--make her think! It might even work out that... he had to set his teeth hard on the thoughts that came rushing now. It was as if a door had opened, letting loose the old forces, the old dreams (that is, the particular lot that had concerned his relations with Sue) that he had thought dead, long since, of inanition.... Confused with all these dreams and hopes, these resentments and indignations, was a thought that had been thrusting itself upon him of late as he followed Neuerman's publicity. It was that the play might succeed. However bad Grace had made it, it might succeed. This would mean money, a little fame, a thrilling sense of position and power. Sue glanced around. Her elbow gently pressed that of the Worm. “It's Peter,” she said low. “He doesn't see us.” The Worm glanced around now. They were both looking at Peter, rather eagerly, smiling. The eminent playwright gazed steadily off across the house. “He looks all in,” observed the Worm. “Poor Peter”--this from Sue--“these first nights are a frightful strain.” “Pete!” the Worm called softly. He had to see them now. He came across the aisle, shook hands, peered gloomily, self-consciously down at them. “Hiding?” asked Sue, all smiles. Peter's gloom deepened. “Oh, no,” he replied. “Evidently you're not figuring on taking the author's call,” said the Worm, surveying Peter's business suit. The playwright raised his hand, moved it lightly as if tossing away an inconsiderable thing. “Why should I? I'm not interested. It's not my play.” The Worm was smiling. What was the matter with them--grinning like monkeys! Couldn't they at least show a decent respect for his feelings? “There is a rather wide-spread notion to the contrary,” said the Worm. “Oh, yes”--again that gesture from Peter---“my name is on it. But it is not my play.” “Whose is it then?”