The room was beginning to fill—­actors, musicians, a few journalists, a great many men of note in the world of Bohemia kept streaming in.  One or two of them nodded to him, several paused to speak.

“Hullo, Ware!” Noel Bridges exclaimed.  “Not often you give us a look in.  What are you doing with yourself here all alone?”

Philip turned to answer him, and suddenly felt the fire blaze up again.  He saw his questioner’s frown, saw him even bite his lip as though conscious of having said a tactless thing.  The actor probably understood the whole situation well enough.

“I generally go into the Lotus,” Philip lied.  “To-night I had a fancy to come here.”

“The Lotus is too far up town for us fellows,” Bridges remarked.  “We need a drink, a little supper, and to see our pals quickly when the night’s work is over.  I hear great things of the new play, Mr. Ware, but I don’t know when you’ll get a chance to produce it.  Were you in the house tonight?”

“Only for a moment.”

“Going stronger than ever,” Bridges continued impressively.  “Yes, thanks, I’ll take a Scotch highball,” he added, in response to Philip’s mute invitation, “plenty of ice, Mick.  There wasn’t a seat to be had in the house, and I wouldn’t like to say what old Fink had to go through before he could get his box for the great Sylvanus.”

“His box?” Philip queried.

“The theatre belongs to Sylvanus Power, you know,” Bridges explained.  “He built it five years ago.”

“For a speculation?”

The actor fidgeted for a moment with his tumbler.

“No, for Miss Dalstan,” he replied.

Philip set his teeth hard.  The temptation to pursue the conversation was almost overpowering.  The young man himself, though a trifle embarrassed, seemed perfectly willing to talk.  At least it was better to know the truth!  Then another impulse suddenly asserted itself.  Whatever he was to know he must learn from her lips and from hers only.

“Well, I should think it’s turned out all right,” he remarked.

Noel Bridges shrugged his shoulders.

“The rent, if it were figured out at a fair interest on the capital, would be something fabulous,” he declared.  “You see, the place was extravagantly built—­without any regard to cost.  The dressing rooms, as you may have noticed, are wonderful, and all the appointments are unique.  I don’t fancy the old man’s ever had a quarter’s rent yet that’s paid him one per cent, on the money.  See you later, perhaps, Mr. Ware,” the young man concluded, setting down his tumbler.  “I’m going in to have a grill.  Why don’t you come along?”