lders, too,
seemed to have broadened, and his face had lost its cadaverous pallor.

The apartment in which he stood was plainly but handsomely furnished as a
small withdrawing room. On the oak chiffonier stood a silver tray on
which were half a dozen frosted cocktails. Through the curtains was
apparent a room beyond, in which a round table, smothered with flowers,
was arranged for supper; in the distance, from the public restaurant,
came the sound of softly played music. Philip glanced at the clock. The
whole of the anxieties of this momentous evening had passed. Telephone
messages had reached him every quarter of an hour. The play was a great
success. Elizabeth was coming to him with her producer and a few
theatrical friends, flushed with triumph. They were all to meet for the
first time that night the man who for the last three months had lived as
a hermit--Merton Ware, the author of "The House of Shams," the new-found
dramatist.

A maitre d'hotel appeared in the space between the two rooms, and bowed.

"Everything is quite ready, Mr. Ware," he said, in the friendly yet
deferential manner of an American head-waiter. "Won't you take a
cocktail, sir, while you are waiting?"

"Very thoughtful of you, Louis. I think I will," Philip assented, taking
a little case from his pocket and lighting a cigarette.

The man passed him a glass upon a small salver.

"You'll pardon the liberty, I am sure, sir," he continued, dropping his
voice a little. "I've just heard that 'The House of Shams' seems to be a
huge success, sir. If I might take the liberty of offering my
congratulations!"

Philip smiled genially.

"You are the first, Louis," he said. "Thank you very much indeed."

"I think you will find the supper everything that could be desired, Mr.
Ware," the man went on. "Our head chef, Monsieur Raconnot, has given it
his personal attention. The wine will be slightly iced, as you desired. I
shall be outside in the corridor to announce the guests."

"Capital, Louis!" Ware replied, sipping his cocktail. "It will be another
quarter of an hour yet before we see anything of them, I am afraid."

The man disappeared and left Philip once more alone. He looked through
the walls of the room as though, indeed, he could see into the packed
theatre and could hear the cries for "Author!" which even then were
echoing through the house. From the moment when Elizabeth, abandoning her
reserve, had given him the love he craved, a new streng