door--he never let one of us put a foot inside. He was method and
order itself. He never changed the order in which he lifted the
glittering things out, nor the places he put them back in. I put my
hand up against the top of the box, tracing the spot where each piece
would be lying. Think, Mag, just half an inch between me and quarter
of a million!

Oh, I was sore as I lay there! And I wasn't so cock-sure either that
I'd get out of it straight. I tried the Beryl story lots of ways on
myself, but somehow, every time I fancied myself telling it to
Obermuller, it got tangled up and lay dumb and heavy inside of me.

But at least it would be better to appear of my own will before the old
Englishman than be discovered by Lord Gray and his Lady. I had my
fingers on the curtains, and in another second I'd been out when--

"Miss Beryl Blackburn's compliments, Mr. Topham, and would you step to
the door, as there's something most important she wants to tell you."

Oh, I loved every syllable that call-boy spoke! There was a giggle
behind his voice, too; old Topham was the butt of every joke. The
first call, which had fooled me, must have been from some giddy girl
who wanted to guy the old fellow. She had fooled me all right. But
this--this one was the real article.

There was a pause--Topham must be looking about to be sure things were
safe. Then he creaked to the door and shut it carefully behind him.

It only took a minute, but in that minute--in that minute, Mag, I had
the rose diamond clutched safe in my fingers; I was on the top of the
big trunk and out of the window.

Oh, the feel of that beautiful thing in my hand! I'd 'a' loved it if
it hadn't been worth a penny, but as it was I adored it. I slipped the
chain under my collar, and the diamond slid down my neck, and I felt
its kiss on my skin. I flew down the black corridor, bumping into
scenery and nearly tripping two stage carpenters. I heard Ginger, the
call-boy, ahead of me and dodged behind some properties just in time.
He went whistling past and I got to the stage door.

I pulled it open tenderly, cautiously, and turned to shut it after me.

And--

And something held it open in spite of me.

No--no, Mag, it wasn't a man. It was a memory. It rose up there and
hit me right over the heart--the memory of Nancy Olden's happiness the
first time she'd come in this very door, feeling that she actually had
a right to use a stage: entrance, feeling th