ost that had put a spell upon him. He was
tremulous all over.

Miss Ellsling and her companion came to a full stop and stood waiting.
Thereupon Packer went to the rear of the stage, leaned through an open
doorway, and spoke deferentially:

"Mr. Potter? All ready, sir. All ready, Miss--ah--Malone?"

Then he stepped back with the air of an unimportant person making way
for his betters to pass before him, while Canby's eyes fixed themselves
glassily upon the shabby old doorway through which an actual, breathing
Wanda Malone was to come.

But he was destined not to see her appear in that expectant frame.
Twenty years before--though he had forgotten it--in a dazzling room
where there was a Christmas tree, he had uttered a shriek of ecstatic
timidity just as a jingling Santa Claus began to emerge from behind
the tree, and he had run out of the room and out of the house. He did
exactly the same thing now, though this time the shriek was not vocal.

Suffocating, he fled up the aisle and out into the lobby. There he
addressed himself distractedly but plainly:

"Jackass!"

Breathing heavily, he went out to the wide front steps of the theatre
and stood, sunlit Broadway swimming before him.

"Hello, Canby!"

A shabby, shaggy, pale young man, with hot eyes, checked his ardent gait
and paused, extending a cordial, thin hand, the fingers browned at the
sides by cigarettes smoked to the bitter end. "Rieger," he said. "Arnold
Rieger. Remember me at the old Ink Club meetings before we broke up?"

"Yes," said Canby dimly. "Yes. The old Ink Club. I came out for a breath
of air. Just a breath."

"We used to settle the universe in that little back restaurant room,"
said Rieger. "Not one of use had ever got a thing into print--and me, I
haven't yet, for that matter. Editors still hate my stuff. I've kept my
oath, though; I've never compromised--never for a moment."

"Yes," Canby responded feebly, wondering what the man was talking about.
Wanda Malone was surely on the stage, now. If he turned, walked about
thirty feet, and opened a door, he would see her--hear her speaking!

"I've had news of your success," said Rieger. "I saw in the paper that
Talbot Potter was to put on a play you'd written. I congratulate you.
That man's a great artist, but he never seems to get a good play; he's
always much, much greater than his part. I'm sure you've given him a
real play at last. I remember your principles: Realism; no compromise!
The tr