slice of lemon--and it had happened that he had pointed out one who was
to be the instrument of great trouble for Hillyard and a few others,
with whom this story is concerned.

Hillyard interrupted Hardiman.

"Who is the girl at the end of the sixth row, who seems to have stepped
down from a china group on a mantelpiece?"

"That one?" said Hardiman, and all the raillery faded from his face.
"That is Mrs. Croyle. You will meet her to-night at my supper party." He
hesitated as to what further he should say. "You might do worse than be
a friend to her. She is not, I am afraid, very happy."

Hillyard was surprised at the sudden gentleness of his companion's
voice, and looked quickly towards him. Hardiman answered the look as he
got heavily up from his chair.

"I sometimes fear that I have some responsibility for her unhappiness.
But there are things one cannot help."

The light in the auditorium went down while Hardiman was leaving the
box, and the curtain rose on the third act of "The Dark Tower." Of that
play, however, you may read in the files of the various newspapers, if
you will. This story is concerned with Martin Hillyard, not his work. It
is sufficient to echo the words of Sir Chichester Splay when Hillyard
was introduced to him an hour and a half later in the private
supper-room at the Semiramis Hotel.

"A good play, Mr. Hillyard. Not a great play, of course, but quite a