histories. She dropped dead in her dressing-room one night
forty-two years ago. I was thinking of her to-day; something
reminded me of her."

"Was she a friend of yours, Mr. Tinker?" Canby asked.

"Friend? No. I was an usher in the old Calumet Theatre, and she
owned New York. She had this quality; every man in the audience fell
in love with her. So did the women, too, for that matter, and the
actors who played with her. When she played a love-scene, people
who'd been married thirty years would sit and watch her and hold
each other's hands--yes, with tears in their eyes. I've seen 'em.
And after the performance, one night, the stage-door keeper, a man
seventy years old, was caught kissing the latch of the door where
she'd touched it; and he was sober, too. There was something about
her looks and something about her voice you couldn't get away from.
You couldn't tell to save you what it was, but after you'd seen her
she'd seem to be with you for days, and you couldn't think much
about anything else, even if you wanted to. People used to go around
in a kind of spell; they couldn't think of anything or talk of
anything but Dora Preston. It didn't matter much what she did;
everything she did made you feel like a boy falling in love the
first time. It made you think of apple-blossoms and moonlight just
to look at her. She--"

"See here, Mr. Canby"--Talbot Potter interrupted suddenly. He
dropped into a chair and picked up the manuscript--"See here!
I've got an idea that may save this play. Suppose we let
'Roderick Hanscom' make his sacrifice, not for the heroine, but
because he's in love with the other girl--the ingenue--I've