AN EXTRAORDINARY CHAMBERMAID, A MIDNIGHT TRAGEDY, AND A MAN WHO SAID
"THANK YOU"


Miss Thackeray was "turning down" his bed when he entered his room
after bidding his new actor friends good night. All three promised to
be up bright and early in the morning to speed him on his way with
good wishes. Mr. Rushcroft declared that he would break the habit of
years and get up in time to partake of a seven o'clock breakfast with
him. Mr. Dillingford and Mr. Bacon, though under sentence to eat at
six with the rest of the "help," were quite sanguine that old man
Jones wouldn't mind if they ate again at seven. So it was left that
Barnes was to have company for breakfast.

He was staggered and somewhat abashed by the appearance of Miss
Thackeray. She was by no means dressed as a chambermaid should be, nor
was she as dumb. On the contrary, she confronted him in the choicest
raiment that her wardrobe contained, and she was bright and cheery and
exceedingly incompetent. It was her costume that shocked him. Not only
was she attired in a low-necked, rose-coloured evening gown, liberally
bespangled with tinsel, but she wore a vast top-heavy picture-hat
whose crown of black was almost wholly obscured by a gorgeous white
feather that once must have adorned the king of all ostriches. She was
not at all his idea of a chambermaid. He started to back out of the
door with an apology for having blundered into the wrong room by
mistake.

"Come right in," she said cheerily. "I'll soon be through. I suppose I
should have done all this an hour ago, but I just had to write a few