impolitely,--he interrupted Mr. Rushcroft's flow of eloquence.

"Have you any objection, Mr. Rushcroft, to a more or less personal
question concerning your own private--er--misfortunes?" he asked,
leaning forward.

For a moment one could have heard a pin drop. Mr. Rushcroft evidently
held his breath. There could be no mistake about that.

"I don't mean to be offensive," Barnes made haste to add.

"My misfortunes are not private," said Mr. Rushcroft, with dignity.
"They are decidedly public. Ask all the questions you please, my dear
fellow."

"Well, it's rather delicate, but would you mind telling me just how
much you were stuck up for by the--er--was it a writ of attachment?"

"It was," said the star. "A writ of inquisition, you might as well
substitute. The act of a polluted, impecunious, parsimonious,--what
shall I say? Well, I will be as simple as possible: hotel keeper. In
other words, a damnation blighter, sir. Ninety-seven dollars and forty
cents. For that pitiful amount he subjected me to--"

"Well, that isn't so bad," said Barnes, vastly relieved. "It would
require that amount to square everything and release your personal
effects?"

"It would release the whole blooming production," put in Mr.
Dillingford, with unction. "Including my dress suit and a top hat, to