frightened rather than startled. The man had even gone pale.

Motive, motive, that was the word. What motive lay behind action.
Conscious and unconscious, every volitional act was the result of
motive.

He wondered what she had done when Gregory had told her.

As a matter of fact, Beverly Carlysle had shown less anxiety than
her brother. Still pale and shocked, he had gone directly to her
dressing-room when the curtain was rung down, had tapped and gone
in. She was sitting wearily in a chair, a cigarette between her
fingers. Around was the usual litter of a stage dressing-room after
the play, the long shelf beneath the mirror crowded with powders,
rouge and pencils, a bunch of roses in the corner washstand basin,
a wardrobe trunk, and a maid covering with cheese-cloth bags the
evening's costumes.

"It went all right, I think, Fred."

"Yes," he said absently. "Go on out, Alice. I'll let you come back
in a few minutes."

He waited until the door closed.

"What's the matter?" she asked rather indifferently. "If it's more
quarreling in the company I don't want to hear it. I'm tired."
Then she took a full look at him, and sat up.

"Fred! What is it?"