MARIO ESCOBAR


Late in the autumn of the following year a new play, written by Martin
Hillyard and named "The Dark Tower," was produced at the Rubicon Theatre
in Panton Street, London. It was Hillyard's second play. His first,
produced in April of the same year, had just managed to limp into July;
and that small world which concerns itself with the individualities of
playwrights was speculating with its usual divergencies upon Hillyard's
future development.

"The Dark Tower" was a play of modern days, built upon the ancient
passions. The first act was played to a hushed house, and while the
applause which greeted the fall of the curtain was still rattling about
the walls of the theatre, Sir Charles Hardiman hoisted himself heavily
out of his stall and made his way to a box on the first tier, which he
entered without knocking.

There was but one person in the box, a young man hidden behind a side
curtain. Hardiman let himself collapse into a chair by the side of the
young man.

"Seems all right," he said. "You have a story to tell. It's clear in
every word, too, that you know where you are going. That makes people
comfortable and inclined to go along with you."

Hillyard turned with a smile.

"We haven't come to the water jump yet," he said.