as over, Thayer
and Beatrix had discussed the matter fully and in all its bearings. The
attendant had his own reasons for wishing to keep the secret, and the
butler could be relied upon implicitly. Accordingly, they had decided
that there was no need of acquainting the world with the true version of
the case, and they had agreed that Bobby should be the one person to be
put in possession of all the facts. He was just; he had no sentimental
ideals to be dispelled in regard to Lorimer, and he was utterly
trustworthy.

Thayer's third message was the shortest of all.

"Not in? Very well. I am Mr. Thayer. Tell him that I will be in his
office at ten o'clock on Saturday morning."

It was then late on Thursday afternoon. Thayer had calculated that the
Danes would come in, the next day, and that the sleigh which brought
them in would also carry him out in season for the night train to New
York. There was another illness in the opera company. _Faust_ was to be
sung on the following Wednesday night, and Thayer, in sending that last
message, had given his tacit consent to singing the part of _Valentine_.
Even in the midst of his trouble, he smiled grimly to himself, as he
thought back to that far-off night in Berlin when the chord which closes
_Valentine's_ cavatina also closed his long indecision and left him
sitting with his face definitely turned towards the artist's life. It
had seemed to him then that the decision was threatening to undermine
his Puritanism; nevertheless, he had temporized with that Puritanism. In
resolving to become an artist, in so far as the possibility of art lay
in his keeping, he had likewise resolved to hold himself a man, virile
and of steady nerve. To his young enthusiasm, the two ideals had not
seemed incompatible. To his maturer judgment, they had appeared in no
sense to be at war, yet together they had been by no means easy of
attainment. All in all, he had preferred to leave to the recording angel
the balancing of his psychological accounts. He had lacked the time and
the perspective to do it for himself. But, meanwhile, he believed he
recognized the hand of fate in this second summons to sing the part of
_Valentine_. Fate and his old _maestro_ both had declared themselves for
opera. Their united will should be done.

That evening was the longest he had ever spent, so long that in reality
it lasted until the gray dawn. The eastern sky was tinging itself with
yellow when he roused himself from