s girl got
him?"

"Way over there." Charlie waved an indefinite hand in the wrong
direction.

Mary stood still, in a perplexed endeavor to read meaning in the nature
of Mignon's strange action. Suddenly the light burst upon her. "Oh!" she
cried, dismay written on every feature. "Now I begin to understand!" She
glanced wildly about her. Far up the street shone the light of an
oncoming street-car. Seizing Charlie by the hand she hurried him to the
corner. It was not more than two minutes until the car came to a
creaking stop before them. Mary helped Charlie into it and fumbled in
her purse. She had just two nickels. Breathing her relief, she paid the
fares, deposited Charlie on a seat beside her, then stared out the
window in an anxious watch of the streets.

But while Mary Raymond was making a desperate attempt to redeem herself
by at least one kind act, Mignon La Salle had reached the theatre.
Dropping all appearance of haste, she strolled past the groups of gaily
attired boys and girls, nodding condescendingly to this one and that,
and switched downstairs to the dressing room which she occupied with
several other girls. Leisurely removing her cloak, she plumed herself
before the mirror. Her black eyes constantly sought her watch, however.
At last she turned from the mirror with a peculiar smile and abruptly
left the room. Straight to the star's dressing room she walked. Her thin
fingers beat a sharp tattoo on the door. It opened, and she stood face
to face with Constance Stevens, who was just about to take her place in
the wings, preparatory to the beginning of the opera. She was to make
her first entrance directly after the opening chorus.

"I came to tell you, Miss Stevens," said Mignon with an indescribable
smile of pure malice, "that I saw your brother, Charlie, wandering along
the street as I drove to the theatre. I suppose he has run away."

With a frightened cry, Constance dashed past her and up the stairs.
Mignon laughed aloud as she watched the vanishing figure. "That settles
her," she muttered. "Harriet Delaney can sing my part. She has
understudied it." Springing into sudden action she ran to her dressing
room, eluding a collision with the feminine portion of the chorus who
were scurrying for the stage in obedience to a gong that summoned them
to the wings. Reaching to a hook in the wall, from which depended her
several costumes, hung over one another, she took from under them an
almost exact copy of t