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Pulling on her black velvet tarn, she called gaily—“Come in!”

A mellow voice answered interrogatively, “Miss Parsons?”

It was then she wheeled about. Standing framed in the doorway was a tall man with a cloud of black hair sweeping from a white forehead and a pair of intense dark eyes. Elizabeth knew him instantly.

No mistaking that face and long, lean figure.

She drew a bewildered hand across a bewildered brow. In the doorway of her dressing-room stood Oswald Kane, famous New York theatrical producer!

She made no attempt at speech, just stared at him.

He smiled. “You expected some one else, I see. May I come in?” And as she nodded, “You know me?”

She nodded again, indicated the chair and sank onto the low stool. She couldn’t have stood another instant.

“You’re wondering, of course, why I am here,” the low musical voice went on.

“Y-yes.”

“I’m very much interested in your work, Miss Parsons. I have come to see it three times—last night and twice to-day. Until to-night, however, I was not quite sure of you. There was a listless quality. Had any one, ssss1 perhaps, informed you that I was in front to-night?”