the certificate?"

"No. It was heart failure, true enough, and there was no need to go into
secondary causes."

"I am glad the doctor was a man of sense. If he had been a martinet, it
would have been worse for us all. Of course, there is no telling how far
people will accept the story; but we may as well try to act as if it
were true." There was a pause. Then Bobby inquired, "Well, and now what
are you going to do next?"

"_Valentine_ in _Faust_," Thayer replied briefly.

"The deuce you are! When?"

"Next Wednesday."

Bobby's face fell.

"Oh, I wanted you, myself, for that day. Isn't it rather sudden?"

"So sudden that I didn't half realize it, till I found myself at
rehearsal, this morning. It is to be announced in to-morrow's papers, I
suppose. Not even Arlt knows it yet."

Bobby meditated for the space of several seconds.

"Thayer, I am delighted," he said then. "I was so afraid your stopping
now might mean a permanent break-up in your work. Now you are going into
your right field at last. You've been too large for oratorio; you fill
altogether too much space, and crowd out the chorus. You need a whole
stage to ramp around in. Moreover, if I have any idea what Gounod meant,
he had your voice in mind, when he created the part. Go in, and you are
sure to win; and not a soul in the city will be gladder of it than I."

Thayers face softened. His life, successful as it was, had been
singularly barren of endearments, and Bobby's words touched him keenly.
Heretofore, only Arlt had manifested any personal interest in his
successes, and Arlt was a true German, chary of his words. Thayer held
out his hand to Bobby.

"Thank you, Dane. I believe you," he said.

There was a short silence. Then Thayer added suddenly,--

"What did you want of me for Wednesday?"

Again Bobby's face clouded, and he laughed uneasily.

"Something you can't and must not do, Thayer. I oughtn't to have spoken
of it."

"What was it?" Then a new idea crossed Thayer's mind. "Something about
Lorimer?"

"Yes, I may as well tell you. We have been telephoning back and forth,
all day. They'll be down, Monday night, and the funeral is to be on
Wednesday afternoon. Beatrix is leaving all the plans to my uncle; and
my aunt, who is a sentimental soul and has no idea of the real state of
the case, is insisting that the poor old chap shall be buried with all
manner of social honors. It is to be a real function, and she thought it
would be the mo