“They’re good fellows,” Mr. Fink declared heartily, “white men, all of them.  So long as you don’t try to put ’em off on a false stunt, or anything of that sort, they’ll sling the ink about some.  Ed Harris was in my room just after the second act, and he showed me some of his stuff.  I tell you he means to boost us.”

Elizabeth laid her hand upon her manager’s arm.

“They’re delightful, every one of them,” she agreed, “but, Mr. Fink, you have such influence with them, I wonder if I dare give you just a hint?  Mr. Ware has passed through some very painful times lately.  He is so anxious to forget, and I really don’t wonder at it myself.  I am sure he will be delighted to talk with all of them as to the future and his future plans, but do you think you could just drop them a hint to go quietly as regards the past?”

Mr. Fink was a little perplexed but inclined to be sympathetic.  He glanced towards Philip, who was deep in conversation with Sara Denison.

“Why, I’ll do my best, Miss Dalstan,” he promised.  “You know what the boys are, though.  They do love a story.”

“I am not going to have Mr. Ware’s story published in every newspaper in New York,” Elizabeth said firmly, “and the newspaper man who worms the history of Mr. Ware’s misfortunes out of him, and then makes use of it, will be no friend of mine.  Ask them to be sports, Mr. Fink, there’s a dear.”

“I’ll do what I can,” he promised.  “Mr. Ware isn’t the first man in the world who has funked the limelight, and from what I can see of him it probably wasn’t his fault if things did go a little crooked in the past.  I’ll do my best, Miss Dalstan, I promise you that.  I’ll look in at the club to-night and drop a few hints around.”

Elizabeth patted his hand and smiled at him very sweetly.  The conversation flowed back once more into its former channels, became a medley of confused chaff, disjointed streams of congratulation, of toast-drinking and pleasant speeches.  Then Mr. Fink suddenly rose to his feet.

“Say,” he exclaimed, “we’ve all drunk one another’s healths.  There’s just one other friend I think we ought to take a glass of wine with.  Gee, he’d give something to be with us to-night!  You’ll agree with me, Miss Dalstan, I know.  Let’s empty a full glass to Sylvanus Power!”

There was a curious silence for a second or two, then a clamour of assenting voices.  For a single moment Philip felt a sharp pang at his heart.  Elizabeth was gazing steadily out of the room, a queer tremble at her lips, a look in her eyes which puzzled him, a look almost of fear, of some sort of apprehension.  The moment passed, but her enthusiasm, as she raised her glass, was a little overdone, her gaiety too easily assumed.

“Why, of course!” she declared.  “Fancy not thinking of Sylvanus!”

They drank his health noisily.  Philip set down his glass empty.  A curious instinct kept his lips sealed.  He crushed down and stifled the memory of that sudden stab.  He did not even ask the one natural question.