“The counter attack was well developed and the ground gained is satisfactory to the higher command,” was the way Bartlett framed his congratulations over the telephone. “You can consolidate your present position and rest up for a few days.”

“All right,” Jimmy replied with a chuckle, “but there’s no tellin’ when I may make another raid on the enemy trenches. I’ve got ’em goin’. That one was as easy as getting a drink on Broadway since the U.S.A. went dry.”

“In plain, everyday English,” went on Bartlett, “that’s just about the best plant I’ve seen pulled off in the twenty years that I’ve been in the theatrical business. I noticed that your little Cedar Rapids friend was one of the ring-leaders. How you managed to get them all to play up as well as they did is what I can’t understand. How did you work it?”

Jimmy paused for a moment or two before replying and coughed uneasily.

“I’ve got ’em trained,” he finally replied. “They’ll—they’ll do anything I ask ’em to do—anything.”

It was characteristic of Jimmy to have decided, after considerable speculation, that no motive other than an unselfish desire to please himself and to assist in adding to the greater glory of the occasion had prompted Lolita and her associates to profess conversion on the night before. He had tried to reach her on the telephone several times with the idea of thanking her for her unexpected co-operation in furthering the success of his publicity scheme, but had been always met with the response that she was not in. He finally decided to defer the expression of his gratitude until that evening at the theatre. As a slight token of his good-will and heart-felt thankfulness he ordered a bouquet of roses delivered to her dressing-room and he personally wrote out a little card to be affixed to it.

“To the best little press agent ever,” it ran, “from a cheap piker at the game—Yours with love—Jimmy.”

He tried to preserve a slight semblance of becoming modesty throughout the day, but the congratulations which poured in upon him from all sides were of such a fulsome nature and coincided so perfectly with his own opinion of himself that when evening came he was as expansive as the leading man of a small town stock company and just about as reticent and self-effacing as an auctioneer. He dined alone with a fine inner glow of self-satisfaction and strolled into the lobby of the Colonial Theatre about half an hour before curtain time at peace with the world.

There was a long line of patrons extending from the box-office window almost out to the sidewalk and he watched the scramble for tickets with a feeling of exalted serenity. The sound of voices at the swinging doors leading into the foyer attracted his attention. He turned to see Bartlett and the stage manager coming through. Their mood was one that plainly boded developments of a decidedly disagreeable nature. They made for Jimmy and pounced upon him simultaneously.

“Where’s that girl of yours?” inquired Bartlett in a tone that Jimmy felt was a bit menacing.

“Yes, and where’s Natalie Nugent and Hilda Hennessey and Trixie Seville and Yvonne Elaine and Dulcie Dolores and five or six others,” chimed in the stage manager. “What do you know about ’em?”

“What do I know about ’em?” echoed Jimmy helplessly. “I don’t know anything about ’em. What’s the idea?”

“The idea is that they haven’t shown up tonight,” said Bartlett tartly. “Not a single one of that outfit that put your story over last night has put in an appearance back stage, and I have a remote suspicion that you know why they haven’t. Have you got some new stunt up your sleeve? If you have I won’t stand for it. Understand me, my dear sir, I won’t stand for it.”

“I don’t know anything about it, Mr. Peters,” said Jimmy with an air of injured innocence, “not a single little thing. I haven’t seen Lolita all day and I haven’t laid eyes on any of those other queens either. What makes you think I know anything about it?”

“Just general principles, I fancy. You’re a very smart young man and I had, and still have for that matter, an idea that you may be planning a follow-up of some sort on that yarn you landed this morning. Let me warn you that if you are, you are monkeyin’ with the well-known buzz-saw. Here are a dozen or more of the best looking de luxe girls in this show missing and the house practically sold out. I’ve got a reputation to live up to and I don’t propose to have it suffer just for a fool press story.”

“But, Mr. Bartlett,” broke in Jimmy.

“Ifs and buts are superfluous at this writing,” interrupted the manager angrily. “It’s within fifteen minutes of curtain time, and we’ll have to give a show that’ll look like a Number Three company out in the tall grass. The next time you plan a press story you’ll have to get it passed by the censor beforehand and I’m going to be the censor. Do you get me?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Jimmy weakly as Bartlett and the stage manager disappeared into the theatre again.

He leaned against the wall for support and tried to collect his thoughts. Somehow he couldn’t. He felt himself in the clutch of uncertainties beyond his understanding at the moment and vague distress was written large upon his face. One of the uniformed carriage attendants tapped him on the shoulder and slipped a letter into his hand.

“A young lady left this half an hour ago, Mr. Martin,” he said, “and told me to see as how you got it handed to you personally.”

Jimmy knew the handwriting on the envelope and a queer feeling came over him. He hesitated for a moment before reading it. When Matthews, the house manager, strolled up to him two minutes afterwards vain regret was in his heart and in his eyes there lurked a look of blended bewilderment and futile rage.

“What’s the matter, old man?” inquired Matthews. “Has Bartlett been making things hard for you?”

Jimmy smiled a sickly smile and handed over the letter.

“I don’t mind so much what he says,” he replied, “but this has got under the little old cuticle all right. Read it if you like.”

The manager adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and read the letter, written in the stiff, vertical handwriting of a school-girl.

Dear Jimmy:

This is just to say good-bye. You’ve been very nice and very kind to me and I’m thankful for everything and all that, but I’ve just got to get away from the sinful stage and go back home. The other girls are all quitting, too. I knew weeks ago that it was foolish to pretend I’d ever be anything more than just a fifth or sixth rater and now I’m glad that I’ve been brought to see the wickedness of it all. I guess maybe I’ve got the “Cedar Rapids blues” you spoke about the other night, too. Mother and dad have been writing me for weeks to come home. Thank you again for your kindness and all that and don’t bother trying to look me up for I’m taking a train tonight. Many thanks again—from your little friend,

“That’s mighty tough,” commented Matthews sympathetically. “Love is a great little gamble.”

“You said something,” replied Jimmy dejectedly. “I held the right cards, but I overplayed my hand.”