had better show your sister my card. She is, I
presume, a professional, as she is singing here. My desire to make her
acquaintance is purely actuated by business motives."

Tavernake moved away toward the waiting-room.

The man, who according to his card was Mr. Sidney Grier, would have
followed him in, but Tavernake stopped him.

"If you will wait here," he suggested, "I will see whether my sister
desires to meet you."

Once more Mr. Sidney Grier looked surprised, but after a second glance
at Tavernake he accepted his suggestion and remained outside. Tavernake
took the card to Beatrice.

"Beatrice," he announced, "there is a man outside who has heard you sing
and who wants to be introduced."

She took the card and her eyes opened wide.

"Do you know who he is?" Tavernake asked.

"Of course," she answered. "He is a great producer of musical comedies.
Let me think."

She stood with the card in her hand. Some one else was singing now--an
ordinary modern ballad of love and roses, rapture and despair. They
heard the rising and falling of the woman's voice; the clatter of the
dinner had ceased. Beatrice stood still thinking, her fingers clinching
the card of Mr. Sidney Grier.

"You must bring him in," she said to Tavernake finally.

Tavernake went outside.

"My sister will see you," he remarked, with the air of one who brings
good news.

Mr. Sidney Grier grunted. He was not used to being kept waiting, even
for a second. Tavernake ushered him into the retiring room, and the
other two musicians who were there stared at him as at a god.

"This is the gentleman whose card you have, Beatrice," Tavernake
announced. "Mr. Sidney Grier--Miss Tavernake!"

The man smiled.

"Your brother seems to be suspicious of me," he declared. "I found it
quite difficult to persuade him that you might find it interesting to
talk to me for a few minutes."

"He does not quite understand," Beatrice answered. "He has not much
experience of musical affairs or the stage, and your name would not have
any significance for him."

Tavernake went outside and listened idly to the song which was
proceeding. It was a class of music which secretly he preferred to the
stranger and more haunting notes of Beatrice's melodies. Apparently
the audience was of his opinion, for they received it with a vociferous
encore, to which the young lady generously replied with a music-hall
song about "A French lady from over the water." Towards the close of