man. "What does he care
about this tommyrot--he'll take no notice of it."

"Well," said the man behind the wicket, "I believe he'll come. But
say, he sure started something when he got these women after him.
They're the sharpest-tongued things you ever listened to, and they
have their speeches all ready. The big show opens tonight, and every
seat is sold. You may get a ticket though at the last minute, from
some one who cannot come. There are always some who fail to show up at
the last. I can save you a ticket if this happens. What name?"

"Jones," said the gentleman in the waterproof. No doubt the irritation
in his voice was caused by having to confess to such a common name.
"Robertson Jones. Be sure you have it right," and he passed along the
rail to make room for two women who also asked for tickets.

The directors of the Woman's Parliament knew the advertising value of
a mystery, being students of humanity, and its odd little ways. They
knew that people are attracted by the unknown; so in their advance
notices they gave the names of all the women taking part in the play,
but one. The part of the Premier--the star part--would be taken by a
woman whose identity they were "not at liberty to reveal." Well-known
press women were taking the other parts, and their pictures appeared
on the posters, but no clue was given out as to the identity of the
woman Premier.

Long before sundown, the people gathered at the theatre door, for
the top gallery would open for rush seats at seven. Even the ticket
holders had been warned that no seat would be held after eight
o'clock.

Through the crowd came the burly and aggressive form of Robertson
Jones, still wearing his dark glasses, and with a disfiguring strip of
court plaster across his cheek. At the wicket he made inquiry for his
ticket, and was told to stand back and wait. Tickets were held until
eight o'clock.

In the lobby, flattening himself against the marble wall, he waited,
with his hat well down over his face. Crowds of people, mostly women,
surged past him, laughing, chattering, feeling in their ridiculous
bags for their tickets, or the price of a box of chocolates at the
counter, where two red-gold blondes presided.

Inside, as the doors swung open, he saw a young fellow in evening
dress, giving out handbills, and an exclamation almost escaped him. He
had forgotten all about Peter Neelands!

Robertson Jones, caught in the eddies of women, buffeted by them, his
t