end--and for the life
of him he could not have remembered a single line of the last act!

The aisle at his elbow was already crowded with people on their way out.
Jimmie Dale stooped down mechanically to reach for his hat beneath his
seat--and the next instant he was standing up, staring wildly into the
faces around him.

It had fallen at his feet--a white envelope. Hers! It was in his hand
now, those slim, tapering, wonderfully sensitive fingers of Jimmie
Dale, that were an "open sesame" to locks and safes, subconsciously
telegraphing to his mind the fact that the texture of the paper--was
hers. Hers! And she must be one of those around him--one of those
crowding either the row of seats in front or behind, or one of those
just passing in the aisle. It had fallen at his feet as he had stooped
over for his hat--but from just exactly what direction he could not
tell. His eyes, eagerly, hungrily, critically, swept face after face.
Which one was hers? What irony! She, whom he would have given his
life to know, for whom indeed he risked his life every hour of the
twenty-four, was close to him now, within reach--and as far removed as
though a thousand miles separated them. She was there--but he could not
recognise a face that he had never seen!

With an effort, he choked back the bitter, impotent laugh that rose to
his lips. They were talking, laughing around him. Her VOICE--yes, he
had once heard that, and that he would recognise again. He strained to
catch, to individualise the tone sounds that floated in a medley about
him. It was useless--of course--every effort that he had ever made
to find her had been useless. She was too clever, far too clever for
that--she, too, would know that he could and would recognise her voice
where he could recognise nothing else.

And then, suddenly, he realised that he was attracting attention. Level
stares from the women returned his gaze, and they edged away a little
from his vicinity as they passed, their escorts crowding somewhat
belligerently into their places. Others, in the same row of seats as his
own, were impatiently waiting to get by him. With a muttered apology,
Jimmie Dale raised the seat of his chair, allowing these latter to pass
him--and then, slipping the letter into his pocketbook, he snatched up
his hat from the seat rack.

There was still a chance. Knowing he was there, she would be on her
guard; but in the lobby, among the crowd and unaware of his presence,
there w