the table edge, "you see, I believe in faith all right--and that's no
josh. But the trouble with faith is that it's about the scarcest article
on earth--and I haven't got any more Floppers to lead the way." Madison
adroitly sent the cigar ash through the window with a tap of his
forefinger on the body of the cigar--he frowned, and for a long time sat
musingly silent. Then he spoke again; this time addressing the toes of
his boots: "With the house sold out for the season, the box-office doing
itself proud and the audience crazy over the first two acts, how about
Act Three--h'm?--how about Act Three? Kind of a delicate proposition,
the staging of Act Three--and it's time for the curtain to go up. I can
hear 'em stamping out front now. I can't pull off any more orgies like
last Monday afternoon, even if I wanted to--but everybody's got to have
a run for their money. Say, how about Act Three?"

Madison burned up quite a little tobacco in the interval before supper,
and quite a little more afterward before the setting for his perplexing
"Third Act" appeared to unfold itself satisfactorily before his
mind--indeed, it was close onto half past ten when, by a roundabout
way, he very cautiously and silently approached the Patriarch's cottage.

In the front of the cottage, the Shrine-room, as he christened it, and
the Patriarch's sleeping room were both dark. Madison passed around to
the beach side--here, Helena's room was dark too, but in the Flopper's
window, the end room next to the kitchen and woodshed, there was a
light. The night was warm, and, though the shade was drawn, the window
was open. Madison whistled softly, and the Flopper stuck out his head.

"Hello, Flopper," said Madison; "come out here--I want to have a talk
with you. Helena in bed?"