"He's always the same, you think?" Canby said blankly.

"Always--always at top pitch, that is, and always unexpected. You'll
see as you get to know him. You won't know him any better than you
do now, Mr. Canby; you'll only know him more. I've been with him for
four years--stage-manager--hired man--maid-of-all-work--order his
meals for him in hotels--and I guess old Tinker and I know him as
well as anybody does, but it's a mighty big job to handle him just
right. It keeps us hopping, but that's bread and butter. Not much
bread and butter anywhere these days unless you do hop! We all have
to hop for somebody!" He chuckled again, and then unexpectedly
became so serious he was almost truculent. "And I tell you, Mr.
Canby," he cried, "by George! I'd sooner hop for Talbot Potter than
for any other man that ever walked the earth!"

He took a yellow walking-stick from under his arm, thrust the
manuscript Potter had given him into the pocket of his light
overcoat, and bade his companion good-night with a genial flourish
of the stick. "Subway to Brooklyn for mine. Your play will go, all
right; don't worry about that, Mr. Canby. Good-night and good luck,
Mr. Canby."

Canby went the other way, marvelling.

It was eleven; and for half an hour the theatres had been
releasing their audiences to the streets;--the sidewalks were
bobbing and fluttering; automobiles cometed by bleating
peevishly. Suddenly, through the window of a limousine,
brilliantly lighted within, Canby saw the face of Wanda Malone,
laughing, and embowered in white furs. He stopped, startled;