d up then.

"That was a great suggestion of yours, Olden, to put Lord Gray on to
act himself--great!" His voice shook, he was so angry.

"Well!" I snapped. I wasn't going to let him see that a big man raging
could bluff Nance Olden.

What did he mean? Why--just this: there was Lord Harold Gray, the real
Lord behind the scenes, bringing the Lady who was really only a chorus
girl to the show in his automobile; helping her dress like a maid;
holding her box of jewels as he tagged after her like a big
Newfoundland; smoking his one cigarette solemnly and admiringly while
she was on the stage; poking after her like a tame bear. He's a funny
fellow, that Lord Harold. He's a Tom Dorgan, with the brains and the
graft and--and the brute, too, Mag, washed out of him; a Tom Dorgan
that's been kept dressed in swagger clothes all his life and living at
top-notch--a big, clean, handsome, stupid, good-natured, overgrown boy.

Yes, I'm coming to it. When I'd seen him go tagging after her chippy
Ladyship behind the scenes long enough, I told Obermuller one day that
it was absurd to send the mock Lady out on the boards and keep the live
Lord hidden behind. He jumped at the idea, and they rigged up a little
act for the two--the Lord and the Lady. Gray was furious when she
heard of it--their making use of her Lord in such a way--but Lord
Harold just swallowed his big Adam's apple with a gulp or two, and said:

"'Pon honor, it's a blawsted scheme, you know; but I'm jolly sure I'd
make a bleddy ass of myself. I cawn't act, you know."

The ninny! You know he thinks Gray really can.

But Obermuller explained to him that he needn't act--just be himself
out behind the wings, and lo! Lord Harold was "chawmed."

And Gray?

Why, she gave in at last; pretended to, anyway--sliding out of the
Charity sketch, and rehearsing the thing with him, and all that.
And--and do you know what she did, Mag? (Nance Olden may be pretty
mean, but she wouldn't do a trick like that.) She waited till ten
minutes before time for the thing to be put on and then threw a fit.

"She's so ill, her delicate Ladyship! So ill she just can't go on this
evening! Wonder how long she thinks such an excuse will keep Lord
Harold off when I want him on!" growled Obermuller, throwing her note
over to me. He'd have liked to throw it at me if it'd been heavy
enough to hurt; he was so thumping mad.

You see, there it was on the program:

THE CLEVER SKETCH ENTIT