Therefore he had some chance of retaining them.

"Yes, I will show you the celebrities." He pointed out the leading
critics and the blue stockings of the day. His eyes roamed over the
stalls. "Do you see the man with the broad face and the short whiskers
in the fourth row? The man who looks just a little too like a country
gentleman to be one? That is Sir Chichester Splay. He made a fortune in
a murky town of Lancashire, and, thirsting for colour, came up to London
determined to back a musical comedy. That is the way the craving for
colour takes them in the North. His wish was gratified. He backed 'The
Patchouli Girl,' and in that shining garden he got stung. He is now what
they call an amateur. No first night is complete without him. He is the
half-guinea Mecaenas of our days."

Hillyard looked down at Sir Chichester Splay and smiled at his
companion's description.

"You will meet him to-night at supper, and if your play is a
success--not otherwise--you will stay with him in Sussex."

"No!" cried Hillyard; but Sir Charles was relentless in his insistence.

"You will. His wife will see to that. Who the pretty girl beside him is
I do not know. But the more or less young man on the other side of her,
talking to her with an air of intimacy a little excessive in a public
place, is Mario Escobar. He is a Spaniard, and has the skin-deep
politeness of his race. He is engaged in some sort of business,
frequents some sort of society into which he is invited by the women,
and he is not very popular amongst men. He belongs, however, to some
sort of club. That is all I know about him. One would think he had
guessed we were speaking of him," Hardiman added.

For at that moment Mario Escobar raised his dark, sleek head, and his
big, soft eyes--the eyes of a beautiful woman--looked upwards to the
box. It seemed to Hillyard for a moment that they actually exchanged a
glance, though he himself was out of sight behind the curtain, so direct
was Escobar's gaze. It was, however, merely the emptiness of the box
which had drawn the Spaniard's attention. He was neatly groomed, of a
slight figure, tall, and with his eyes, his thin olive face, his small
black moustache and clean-cut jaw he made without doubt an effective and
arresting figure.

"Now turn your head," said Hardiman, "the other way, and notice the big,
fair man in the back row of the stalls. He is a rival manager, and he is
explaining in a voice loud enough to be heard by th