she stood up and put a hand on David's shoulder. Dick was whistling on the kitchen porch.

Louis Bassett was standing at the back of the theater, talking to the
publicity man of The Valley company, Fred Gregory. Bassett was calm and
only slightly interested. By the end of the first act he had realized
that the star was giving a fine performance, that she had even grown in
power, and that his sentimental memory of her was considerably dearer
than the reality.

"Going like a house afire," he said, as the curtain fell. Beside his robust physique, Gregory, the publicity man, sank into
insignificance. Even his pale spats, at which Bassett had shot a
contemptuous glance, his highly expensive tailoring, failed to make him
appear more than he was, a little, dapper man, with a pale cold eye and
a rather too frequent smile. "She's the best there is," was his comment.
He hesitated, then added: "She's my sister, you know. Naturally, for
business reasons, I don't publish the relationship."

Bassett glanced at him.

"That so? Well, I'm glad she decided to come back. She's too good to
bury."

But if he expected Gregory to follow the lead he was disappointed. His
eyes, blank and expressionless, were wandering over the house as the
lights flashed up.

"This whole tour has been a triumph. She's the best there is," Gregory
repeated, "and they know it."

"Does she know it?" Bassett inquired.

"She doesn't throw any temperament, if that's what you mean. She--" He checked himself suddenly, and stood, clutching the railing, bent
forward and staring into the audience. Bassett watched him, considerably
surprised. It took a great deal to startle a theatrical publicity man,
yet here was one who looked as though he had seen a ghost.

After a time Gregory straightened and moistened his dry lips.

"There's a man sitting down there--see here, the sixth row, next the
aisle; there's a girl in a blue dress beside him. See him? Do you know

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