country, not a fierce, man-devouring animal of the tropics. Pierre
lived in the play with all but one fragment of his brain, and that
remembered Joan. It hurt like a hot coal, but he deliberately ignored
the pain of it. He followed the action breathlessly, applauded with
contagious fervor, surreptitiously rid himself of tears, and when, in
the last scene, the angry, jealous woman sprang upon her tamer, he
muttered, "Serve you right, you coyote!" with an oath of the cow-camp
that made one of his neighbors jump and throttle a startled laugh.

The curtain fell, and while the applause rose and died down and rose
again, and the people called for "Jane West! Jane West!" the
stage-director, a plump little Jew, came out behind the footlights and
held up his hand. There was a gradual silence.

"I want to make an interesting announcement," he said; "the author of
'The Leopardess' has hitherto maintained his anonymity, but to-night I
have permission to give you his name. He is in the theater to-night.
The name is already familiar to you as that of the author of a popular
novel, 'The Canyon': Prosper Gael."

There was a stir of interest, a general searching of the house,
clapping, cries of "Author! Author!" and in a few moments Prosper Gael
left his box and appeared beside the director in answer to the calls.
He was entirely self-possessed, looked even a little bored, but he was
very white. He stood there bowing, a graceful and attractive figure,
and he was about to begin a speech when he was interrupted by a
renewed calling for "Jane West!" The audience wanted to see the star
and the author side by side. Pierre joined in the clamor.

After a little pause Jane West came out from the opposite wing,
walking slowly, dressed in her green gown, jewels on her neck and in
her hair. She did not look toward the audience at all, nor bow, nor
smile, and for some reason the applause began to falter as though the
sensitive mind of the crowd was already aware that here something must
be wrong. She came very slowly, her arms hanging, her head bent, her
eyes looking up from under her brows, and she stood beside Prosper
Gael, whose forced smile had stiffened on his lips. He looked at her
in obvious fear, as a man might look at a dangerous madwoman. There
must have been madness in her eyes. She stood there for a strange,
terrible moment, moving her head slightly from side to side. Then she
said something in a very low tone. Because of the extra