When Sally left Detroit on the following Saturday, accompanied byFillmore, who was returning to the metropolis for a few days in order tosecure offices and generally make his presence felt along Broadway, herspirits had completely recovered. She felt guiltily that she had beenfanciful, even morbid. Naturally men wanted to get on in the world. Itwas their job. She told herself that she was bound up with Gerald'ssuccess, and that the last thing of which she ought to complain was theenergy he put into efforts of which she as well as he would reap thereward.

　　To this happier frame of mind the excitement of the last few days hadcontributed. Detroit, that city of amiable audiences, had liked "ThePrimrose Way." The theatre, in fulfilment of Teddy's prophecy, had beenallowed to open on the Tuesday, and a full house, hungry forentertainment after its enforced abstinence, had welcomed the playwholeheartedly. The papers, not always in agreement with the applauseof a first-night audience, had on this occasion endorsed the verdict,with agreeable unanimity hailing Gerald as the coming author and ElsaDoland as the coming star. There had even been a brief mention ofFillmore as the coming manager. But there is always some trifle thatjars in our greatest moments, and Fillmore's triumph had been almostspoilt by the fact that the only notice taken of Gladys Winch was by thecritic who printed her name--spelt Wunch--in the list of those whom thecast "also included.""One of the greatest character actresses on the stage," said Fillmorebitterly, talking over this outrage with Sally on the morning after theproduction.

　　From this blow, however, his buoyant nature had soon enabled him torally. Life contained so much that was bright that it would have beenchurlish to concentrate the attention on the one dark spot. Business hadbeen excellent all through the week. Elsa Doland had got better at everyperformance. The receipt of a long and agitated telegram from Mr.

　　Cracknell, pleading to be allowed to buy the piece back, the passage oftime having apparently softened Miss Hobson, was a pleasant incident.

　　And, best of all, the great Ike Schumann, who owned half the theatres inNew York and had been in Detroit superintending one of his musicalproductions, had looked in one evening and stamped "The Primrose Way"with the seal of his approval. As Fillmore sat opposite Sally on thetrain, he radiated contentment and importance.

　　"Yes, do," said Sally, breaking a long silence.

　　Fillmore awoke from happy dreams.

　　"Eh?""I said 'Yes, do.' I think you owe it to your position.""Do what?""Buy a fur coat. Wasn't that what you were meditating about?""Don't be a chump," said Fillmore, blushing nevertheless. It was truethat once or twice during the past week he had toyed negligently, as Mr.

　　Bunbury would have said, with the notion, and why not? A fellow mustkeep warm.

　　"With an astrakhan collar," insisted Sally.

　　"As a matter of fact," said Fillmore loftily, his great soul ill-attunedto this badinage, "what I was really thinking about at the moment wassomething Ike said.""Ike?""Ike Schumann. He's on the train. I met him just now.""We call him Ike!""Of course I call him Ike," said Fillmore heatedly. "Everyone callshim Ike.""He wears a fur coat," Sally murmured.

　　Fillmore registered annoyance.

　　"I wish you wouldn't keep on harping on that damned coat. And, anyway,why shouldn't I have a fur coat?""Fill... ! How can you be so brutal as to suggest that I ever said youshouldn't? Why, I'm one of the strongest supporters of the fur coat.

　　With big cuffs. And you must roll up Fifth Avenue in your car, and I'llpoint and say 'That's my brother!' 'Your brother? No!' 'He is, really.'

　　'You're joking. Why, that's the great Fillmore Nicholas.' 'I know. Buthe really is my brother. And I was with him when he bought that coat.'""Do leave off about the coat!""'And it isn't only the coat,' I shall say. 'It's what's underneath.

　　Tucked away inside that mass of fur, dodging about behind that dollarcigar, is one to whom we point with pride... '"Fillmore looked coldly at his watch.

　　"I've got to go and see Ike Schumann.""We are in hourly consultation with Ike.""He wants to see me about the show. He suggests putting it into Chicagobefore opening in New York.""Oh no," cried Sally, dismayed.

　　"Why not?"Sally recovered herself. Identifying Gerald so closely with his play,she had supposed for a moment that if the piece opened in Chicago itwould mean a further prolonged separation from him. But of course therewould be no need, she realized, for him to stay with the company afterthe first day or two.

　　"You're thinking that we ought to have a New York reputation beforetackling Chicago. There's a lot to be said for that. Still, it worksboth ways. A Chicago run would help us in New York. Well, I'll have tothink it over," said Fillmore, importantly, "I'll have to think itover."He mused with drawn brows.

　　"All wrong," said Sally.

　　"Eh?""Not a bit like it. The lips should be compressed and the forefinger ofthe right hand laid in a careworn way against the right temple. You've alot to learn. Fill.""Oh, stop it!""Fillmore Nicholas," said Sally, "if you knew what pain it gives me tojosh my only brother, you'd be sorry for me. But you know it's for yourgood. Now run along and put Ike out of his misery. I know he's waitingfor you with his watch out. 'You do think he'll come, Miss Nicholas?'

　　were his last words to me as he stepped on the train, and oh, Fill, theyearning in his voice. 'Why, of course he will, Mr. Schumann,' I said.

　　'For all his exalted position, my brother is kindliness itself. Ofcourse he'll come.' 'If I could only think so!' he said with a gulp. 'IfI could only think so. But you know what these managers are. A thousandcalls on their time. They get brooding on their fur coats and forgeteverything else.' 'Have no fear, Mr. Schumann,' I said. 'FillmoreNicholas is a man of his word.'"She would have been willing, for she was a girl who never believed insparing herself where it was a question of entertaining her nearest anddearest, to continue the dialogue, but Fillmore was already moving downthe car, his rigid back a silent protest against sisterly levity. Sallywatched him disappear, then picked up a magazine and began to read.

　　She had just finished tracking a story of gripping interest through ajungle of advertisements, only to find that it was in two parts, ofwhich the one she was reading was the first, when a voice spoke.

　　"How do you do, Miss Nicholas?"Into the seat before her, recently released from the weight of thecoming manager, Bruce Carmyle of all people in the world insinuatedhimself with that well-bred air of deferential restraint which neverleft him.

　　Sally was considerably startled. Everybody travels nowadays, ofcourse, and there is nothing really remarkable in finding a man inAmerica whom you had supposed to be in Europe: but nevertheless she wasconscious of a dream-like sensation, as though the clock had been turnedback and a chapter of her life reopened which she had thought closed forever.

　　"Mr. Carmyle!" she cried.

　　If Sally had been constantly in Bruce Carmyle's thoughts since they hadparted on the Paris express, Mr. Carmyle had been very little inSally's--so little, indeed, that she had had to search her memory for amoment before she identified him.

　　"We're always meeting on trains, aren't we?" she went on, her composurereturning. "I never expected to see you in America.""I came over."Sally was tempted to reply that she gathered that, but a suddenembarrassment curbed her tongue. She had just remembered that at theirlast meeting she had been abominably rude to this man. She was neverrude to anyone, without subsequent remorse. She contented herself with atame "Yes.""Yes," said Mr. Carmyle, "it is a good many years since I have taken areal holiday. My doctor seemed to think I was a trifle run down. Itseemed a good opportunity to visit America. Everybody," said Mr. Carmyleoracularly, endeavouring, as he had often done since his ship had leftEngland, to persuade himself that his object in making the trip had notbeen merely to renew his acquaintance with Sally, "everybody ought tovisit America at least once. It is part of one's education.""And what are your impressions of our glorious country?" said Sallyrallying.

　　Mr. Carmyle seemed glad of the opportunity of lecturing on an impersonalsubject. He, too, though his face had shown no trace of it, had beenembarrassed in the opening stages of the conversation. The sound of hisvoice restored him.

　　"I have been visiting Chicago," he said after a brief travelogue.

　　"Oh!""A wonderful city.""I've never seen it. I've come from Detroit.""Yes, I heard you were in Detroit."Sally's eyes opened.

　　"You heard I was in Detroit? Good gracious! How?""I--ah--called at your New York address and made inquiries," said Mr.

　　Carmyle a little awkwardly.

　　"But how did you know where I lived?""My cousin--er--Lancelot told me."Sally was silent for a moment. She had much the same feeling that comesto the man in the detective story who realizes that he is beingshadowed. Even if this almost complete stranger had not actually cometo America in direct pursuit of her, there was no disguising the factthat he evidently found her an object of considerable interest. It wasa compliment, but Sally was not at all sure that she liked it. BruceCarmyle meant nothing to her, and it was rather disturbing to find thatshe was apparently of great importance to him. She seized on the mentionof Ginger as a lever for diverting the conversation from its present toointimate course.

　　"How is Mr. Kemp?" she asked.

　　Mr. Carmyle's dark face seemed to become a trifle darker.

　　"We have had no news of him," he said shortly.

　　"No news? How do you mean? You speak as though he had disappeared.""He has disappeared!"&qu............