place, is Mario Escobar. He is a Spaniard, and has the skin-deep
politeness of his race. He is engaged in some sort of business,
frequents some sort of society into which he is invited by the women,
and he is not very popular amongst men. He belongs, however, to some
sort of club. That is all I know about him. One would think he had
guessed we were speaking of him," Hardiman added.

For at that moment Mario Escobar raised his dark, sleek head, and his
big, soft eyes--the eyes of a beautiful woman--looked upwards to the
box. It seemed to Hillyard for a moment that they actually exchanged a
glance, though he himself was out of sight behind the curtain, so direct
was Escobar's gaze. It was, however, merely the emptiness of the box
which had drawn the Spaniard's attention. He was neatly groomed, of a
slight figure, tall, and with his eyes, his thin olive face, his small
black moustache and clean-cut jaw he made without doubt an effective and
arresting figure.

"Now turn your head," said Hardiman, "the other way, and notice the big,
fair man in the back row of the stalls. He is a rival manager, and he is
explaining in a voice loud enough to be heard by the first rows of the
pit, the precise age of your leading lady. Now look down! There is a
young girl flitting about the stalls. She is an actress, not very
successful. But to-night she is as busy as a bee. She is crabbing your
play. Yesterday her opinion on the subject was of no value, and it will
be again of no value to-morrow. But as one of the limited audience on a
first night, she can do just a tiny bit of harm. But don't hold it
against her, Hillyard! She has no feeling against you. This is her
little moment of importance."

Sir Charles rattled on through the interval--all good nature with just a