alk over the terms of their treaty.

He waited from a quarter after seven to half past eight, but Rose didn't
come. The thought that perhaps he hadn't taken his station early enough
sent him back to another vigil at half past ten. At a quarter to twelve,
his patience exhausted, he opened the stage door and told the doorman he
was waiting for one of the girls in the sextette. The doorman informed
him they had all gone home.

There was, unfortunately, no matinee the next day, and it was only by
the exercise of all the will power he had, that he stayed in his office
and did his work and waited for the hour of the evening performance.
Then he went to the theater and bought a ticket. When the sextette made
its first appearance on the stage, he saw that another girl than Rose
was taking her part. He went out into the lobby, and once more sought
the manager. But this time with a different air.

"Haven't you an office somewhere where we can talk?" he demanded. "This
is important."

Evidently the manager saw it was, because he conducted him to a small
room with a desk in it, half-way up the balcony stairs, and nodded him
to a chair.

"There was a young woman in your company," Rodney said, "in the
sextette. She isn't playing to-night. I want to know what her stage name
is, and where she can be found. I assure you that it's of the first
importance to her that I should find her."

The manager's manner was different, too. He looked perplexed and rather
unhappy. But he didn't tell Rodney what he wanted to know.

"She's left the company," he said, "permanently. That's all I can tell
you."

"Is she ill?" Rodney demanded.

The manager said not that he knew of, but this was all that was to be
got out of him.

The thing that finally silenced Rodney and sent him away, was the
reflection that the man might be withholding information about her, on
Rose's own request.

He went away, sore, angry, discouraged. Jimmy Wallace seemed about the
only hope there was. But he'd be damned if he'd go to Jimmy. Not yet,
anyway. And then he thought of Portia!

She'd tell him. She'd have to tell him. Why hadn't he thought of her
before? He'd write to her the message to Rose he'd tried to get
Frederica to carry. No, he wouldn't do that! He'd go to her. And there
was a chance ... Why, there was the best kind of chance! Why hadn't he
thought of it before? Why had he been such an idiot as to waste all
these days!

It seemed almost certain he'd