For an instant Val thought of nothing but the heavenly surprise of seeing the girl he loved.

Recognition brought a shock of joy, and a wave of love which had been held in check for a time by the weight of misfortune, as the waters of a stormy river in flood are held back by the shut gates of a lock. He had known that he loved her, too well for peace of mind, more passionately and purely than he had thought it was in him to love. But until he saw her face looking up, as if at him, yet unconscious of his gaze—the dear, charming face he had longed for through all his miseries, scarcely dreaming ever to see her again—he had not realised how utterly precious it was, how entirely indispensable in his life.

A wild impulse rushed over him to call her name—"Lesley—Lesley!" and spring from behind the curtain, as if they two were alone together in a world of their own. But after the first luminous instant, the joy of her presence was blotted out in darkness.

He remembered everything; remembered that he was Perceval Gordon, an actor of the submerged tenth, a wretched, penniless barn-stormer, who for the moment came near to being an object of charity.

When he had bidden Lesley goodbye, he was a splendid being who looked down from his heights, and, though loving her, saw her impossible as a wife. Their friendship had begun by being somewhat of a condescension on his part—from his own point of view, at least; and she, half amused, half angry, had seen that point of view quite clearly, nor had she ever attempted to change it, to the last.

At the thought that the curtain would ring up and show him as he was now, to the astonished eyes of Lesley Dearmer, he could have run away, out of the theatre, anywhere—it mattered not where—if only she need not see him, need not know that the magnificent Lord Loveland and the miserable P. Gordon were one.

His blood surged up to his head, throbbing in his temples, and tingling in his ears, but through the confusion of his senses penetrated the knowledge that he could not go.

This trial of endurance—it seemed to him the hardest of all the ordeals he had been forced to face during that fortnight which was a decade—he would have to go through, as he had gone through the others; because, to evade it, he must be worse than a coward. He would be coward and traitor as well; and under all his faults there was something which would not let him be traitor or coward.

Selfish he had been, but the shell of his selfishness had been broken by many hard knocks, and the real self, once so comfortably housed within, was finding itself, though all a-shiver still with the cold.

Let him suffer as he might and must, he couldn't desert these people whom he had undertaken to help out of the trouble in which by his inexperience he had landed them.

He was responsible for putting on "Lord Bob," and his was the principal part. Crudely as he knew that he played it, the performance could not go on without him. If he refused to act the curtain could not ring up, and the money in the theatre would have to be refunded to the disappointed audience. There were not many dollars there—at all events not many would remain for the company after the local manager had taken out his share, but there would be enough with what had come in on the two previous nights, to pay the ever-growing bill at the hotel.

Loveland felt that it would have been almost easier to shoot himself than to give the signal for the curtain to ring up; yet the moment came when he could delay no longer. He was not actor enough to forget in his acting the world beyond the stage. He did not lose his lines; but, conscious of Lesley's eyes upon him, he felt as stiff, as jerky in every movement, as a mechanical doll.

It was worse between acts than when he was on the stage, for he pictured Lesley's head and her aunt's bent near to one another, while he and his affairs were discussed in whispers, perhaps with stifled laughter. It seemed to him that the evening would never end; but at last the curtain went down on the third act, and Loveland was making a "bolt" for his dressing room when one of the stage hands intercepted him, holding out an envelope.

"Say, you're the manager of this show, ain't you?" asked the man.

"I suppose I am at present," said Loveland, not attempting to evade responsibility.

"Well, then, this is for you," and the letter was in his hand.

"To the Manager of the Company producing 'Lord Bob,'" was the address pencilled in an attractive handwriting, which might be that of a man or a woman.

Val hesitated for an instant, and then tore open the envelope. On a sheet of the Ashville theatre paper were written the words, "A friend and agent of Sidney Cremer will be obliged by a few words with the Manager of the Company, in the private room of the Manager of the Opera House, kindly lent for the occasion."

Loveland read the communication, and handed it to Ed Binney, who was passing. Ed gave a long, low whistle, which set him coughing again, and said, "Whew! This is the last straw, isn't it?"

"Why?" asked Loveland.

"Don't you see? Someone's put the author on to us. You know we're pirates—regular play-snatchers, don't you?"

"Yes," replied Val. "Jacobus initiated me into the mysteries. But what can they do to us?"

"There's a big fine for the offence."

Loveland laughed. "I wish Mr. Cremer joy of it."

"Oh, that's all very well, but if he cuts up rough, he can make us a lot of trouble, I'm afraid, though I don't know much about such things. I only know we were always running the risk; but in these small towns there ain't much danger, as the shows don't get noticed by the dramatic papers. I believe Jacobus was never caught. But we're copped this time, sure enough. I wouldn't go into the lion's den, if I was you. Let the lion come to us, at the hotel—if he doesn't find out beforehand that we wouldn't make a meal worth eating."

"Meanwhile, perhaps, he'll have the police 'attach' the luggage or something," argued Loveland. "Heaven knows, I haven't got much; but the rest of you have, and you can't afford to lose it. No, I'll go and face the music. Perhaps when Cremer's agent understands the fix we're in, he'll let us down easy."

"Well, maybe you're right," Binney agreed. "But it seems a shame you should have to stand up and be shot at alone."

Loveland laughed dubiously. "I'm riddled with bullets already. I'll wipe the paint off my face, and go tell the fellow to aim straight and have done with it."

"I'd see you through, if I wasn't such a crock," said poor Ed, coughing.

"Go and tell the others what's up," Val advised him. "They may be able to strike camp and get away with the supply wagons while I engage the enemy."

Three minutes later, Loveland was at the door of the local manager's room. He opened it, and found himself face to face with Lesley Dearmer, who was standing there, alone.