to leave this house till you agree to call at the theater
at ten to-morrow morning." He was smiling, and Warrington had a
pleasant smile. He had an idea besides. "Good fortune put it into my
head to follow you here. I see it all now, quite plainly. I am in a
peculiar difficulty, and I honestly believe that you can help me out
of it. How long would it take you to learn a leading part? In fact,
the principal part?"

"A week."

"Have you had any experience?"

"A short season out west in a stock company."

"Good!"

"And I love work."

"Do not build any great hopes," he warned, "for your chance depends
upon the whim of another woman. But you have my word and my good
offices that something shall be put in your way. You will come at
ten?" drawing on his gloves.

"Promptly."

"I believe that we both have been wise to-night; though it is true
that a man dislikes being a fool and having it made manifest."

"And how about the woman scorned?" with an enchanting smile.

"It is kismet," he acknowledged.

Chapter II

Warrington laid down his pen, brushed his smarting eyes, lighted his
pipe, and tilted back his chair. With his hands clasped behind his
head, he fell into a waking dream, that familiar pastime of the
creative mind. It was half after nine, and he had been writing
steadily since seven. The scenario was done; the villain had lighted
his last cigarette, the hero had put his arms protectingly around the
heroine, and the irascible rich uncle had been brought to terms. All
this, of course, figuratively speaking; for no one ever knew what the
plot of that particular play was, insomuch as Warrington never
submitted the scenario to his manager, an act which caused almost a
serious rupture between them. But to-night his puppets were moving
hither and thither across the stage, pulsing with life; they were
making entrances and exits; developing this climax and that; with wit
and satire, humor and pathos. It was all very real to the dreamer.

The manuscript lay scattered about the top of his broad flat desk, and
the floor beside the waste-basket was flaked with the remains of
various futile lines and epigrams. The ash-pan was littered with burnt
matches, ends of cigars and pipe tobacco, while the ash-crumbs
speckled all dark objects, not excepting the green rug under his feet.
Warrington smoked incessantly while at work, now a cigarette, now a
cigar, now a pipe. Specialists declare with cold authoritative
pos