Goldstein overheard this and came toward them, rubbing his hands together nervously.

“That seems unwise, Miss Maud,” objected Jones.  “To use your foot so soon might make it much worse.  Let us postpone the play until some other time.”

Goldstein’s face was a study.  His body twitched spasmodically.

“Oh, Mr. Jones!” he exclaimed; “that’s impossible; it wouldn’t do at all!  We’ve been rehearsing this play and preparing for its production for the last two weeks, and to-day all our actors and assistants are here and ready to make the picture.  I’ve already postponed it four hours—­until this afternoon—­to favor Miss Stanton, but, really—­”

“Never mind the details,” interrupted the boy.  “I do not consider Miss Stanton able to do her work to-day.  Send her back to her hotel at once and order the play postponed until she is able to attend.”

Goldstein was greatly disturbed by this order, issued quietly but in a tone of command that brooked no opposition.  Again he glanced shrewdly at the young man, and in the manager’s face astonishment and fear were intermingled.

“Sir,” he said in repressed tones, for he was really angry and had been accustomed to wield the power of an autocrat in this establishment, “you are placing me in an embarrassing position.  I am expected to make every day count, so that the Continental may pay a liberal profit to its owners.  To follow your instructions would burden us with an enormous expense, quite useless, I assure you, and—­”

“Very well.  Incur the expense, Goldstein.”

“All right, Mr. Jones.  Excuse me a moment while I issue instructions for the postponement.”

McNeil rose and faced the manager.

“Are you really going to postpone this important play?” he demanded, in a voice of wonder.

Goldstein was glad to vent his chagrin on the producer.

“No insolence, sir!” he roared.  “Come with me, and,” as he dragged McNeil to the door and paused there, “if you dare lisp a word of what you’ve overheard, I’ll fire you like a shot!”

When they had left the room Maud said with a puzzled air: 

“I can’t understand your power over Goldstein, Mr. Jones.  He is a dictator—­almost a tyrant—­and in this place his word is law.  At least, it was until you came, and—­and—­”

“Don’t try to understand it, Miss Stanton,” he answered in a careless manner.  “Do you think you can manage to crawl to the automobile, or shall we carry you?”

“I’ll bet Goldstein has murdered someone, and Mr. Jones knows all about it!” exclaimed Flo, who had been an interested witness of the scene.

Maud stood up, with her sister’s support, and tested her lame ankle.

“It still hurts a little,” she said, “but I can manage to hobble on it.”

“Get your sister’s wraps,” the boy said to Flo, “and we’ll send her straight home.”

“I expect Goldstein will dock my salary, as well as fine Flo,” remarked Maud musingly, as she waited for her hat and coat.  “He obeyed you very meekly, Mr. Jones, but I could see a wicked glitter in his eye, nevertheless.”