her
heart for a second, and then, dropping it, ran from his side.

CHAPTER III

MARIO ESCOBAR

Late in the autumn of the following year a new play, written by Martin
Hillyard and named "The Dark Tower," was produced at the Rubicon Theatre
in Panton Street, London. It was Hillyard's second play. His first,
produced in April of the same year, had just managed to limp into July;
and that small world which concerns itself with the individualities of
playwrights was speculating with its usual divergencies upon Hillyard's
future development.

"The Dark Tower" was a play of modern days, built upon the ancient
passions. The first act was played to a hushed house, and while the
applause which greeted the fall of the curtain was still rattling about
the walls of the theatre, Sir Charles Hardiman hoisted himself heavily
out of his stall and made his way to a box on the first tier, which he
entered without knocking.

There was but one person in the box, a young man hidden behind a side
curtain. Hardiman let himself collapse into a chair by the side of the
young man.

"Seems all right," he said. "You have a story to tell. It's clear in
every word, too, that you know where you are going. That makes people
comfortable and inclined to go along with you."

Hillyard turned with a smile.

"We haven't come to the water jump yet," he said.

Hardiman remained in the box during the second act. He watched the stage
for a while, took note of the laughter which welcomed this or that line,
and of the silence which suddenly enclosed this or that scene from the
rest of the play; and finally, with a certain surprise, and a certain
amusement he fixed his attention upon the play's author. The act ended
in laughter and Hillyard leaned back, and himself laughed, without pose
or affectation, as heartily as any one in the theatre.

"You beat me altogether, my young friend," said Hardiman. "You ought to
be walking up and down the pavement outside in the classical state of
agitation. But you appear to be enjoying the play, as if you never had
seen it before."

"And I haven't," Hillyard returned. "This isn't quite the play which
we have been learning and rehearsing during the last month. Here's
the audience at work, adding a point there, discovering an
interpretation--yes, actually an interpretation--there, bringing into
importance one scene, slipping over the next which we thought more
important--altering it, in fact. Of course," and