It was not written upon club
paper, nor had it any private monogram; in fact, it was on legal cap.
The hand was large, round, and laboriously distinct. The i's were
dotted, the t's crossed with painful precision, while toward capitals
and punctuation marks the writer showed more generosity than
understanding. His sentiment and romance were of the old-time rural
type, and I am certain he longed to quote, "The rose is red, the
violet's blue." I might have been a little touched but for the
signature. I loathed the faintest hint of anonymity, and simply could
not bring myself to believe that any man really and truly walked up and
down the earth bearing the name of Mr. A. Fix. Yet that was the
signature appended to the long, rapturous love-letter. I gave it a pitch
into the waste-basket and dressed for the play. Of course I spoke of the
name, and of course it was laughed at; but three nights later another
letter came--oh, well, it was just a letter. The writer was very
diffuse, and evidently had plenty of paper and ink and time at his
disposal. He dwelt on his sufferings as each day passed without a letter
from me. He explained just what efforts he had made, vainly made, to
secure sleep each night. He did not live in a large city when at home,
and he described how nearly he had come to being run over in trying to
cross our biggest street--while thinking of me. Oh, Mr Fix! He bravely
admitted he was due at the store out home, but he kept a-thinking I
might not have got that first letter, or maybe I wanted to look him over
before writing. So he had waited and was coming to the theatre that very
night, and his seat was in the balcony,--No. 3, left side, front
row,--and for fear I might not feel quite sure about him, he would hold
high to his face, in his left hand, a large white handkerchief.

It didn't seem to occur to him that such an attitude would give him a
very grief-stricken aspect; he only desired to give me a fair chance "to
look him over." Without a second thought, I read that portion of the
letter in the greenroom, and the laughter had scarcely died away when
that admirable actor, but perfectly fiendish player of tricks, Louis
James, was going quietly from actor to actor arranging for the downfall
of A. Fix.

So it happened that James, Clarke, and Lewis, instead of entering in a
group, came on in Indian file, each holding in the left hand a large
pocket-handkerchief. I being already on the stage, there was of cours