irregular rows of original drawings and signed etchings.  The windows were open, and the lights were turned very low, so that Van Bibber could see the many gas lamps and the dark roofs of Broadway and the Avenue where they crossed a few blocks off, and the bunches of light on the Madison Square Garden, and to the lights on the boats of the East River.  From below in the streets came the rattle of hurrying omnibuses and the rush of the hansom cabs.  If Mr. Caruthers was surprised at this late visit, he hid it, and came forward to receive his caller as if his presence were expected.

“Excuse my costume, will you?” he said.  “I turned in rather early to-night, it was so hot.”  He pointed to a decanter and some soda bottles on the table and a bowl of ice, and asked, “Will you have some of this?” And while he opened one of the bottles, he watched Van Bibber’s face as though he were curious to have him explain the object of his visit.

“No, I think not, thank you,” said the younger man.  He touched his forehead with his handkerchief nervously.  “Yes, it is hot,” he said.

Mr. Caruthers filled a glass with ice and brandy and soda, and walked back to his place by the mantel, on which he rested his arm, while he clinked the ice in the glass and looked down into it.

“I was at the first night of ‘The Sultana’ this evening,” said Van Bibber, slowly and uncertainly.

“Oh, yes,” assented the elder man, politely, and tasting his drink.  “Lester’s new piece.  Was it any good?”

“I don’t know,” said Van Bibber.  “Yes, I think it was.  I didn’t see it from the front.  There were a lot of children in it—­little ones; they danced and sang, and made a great hit.  One of them had never been on the stage before.  It was her first appearance.”

He was turning one of the glasses around between his fingers as he spoke.  He stopped, and poured out some of the soda, and drank it down in a gulp, and then continued turning the empty glass between the tips of his fingers.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that it is a great pity.”  He looked up interrogatively at the other man, but Mr. Caruthers met his glance without any returning show of interest.  “I say,” repeated Van Bibber—­“I say it seems a pity that a child like that should be allowed to go on in that business.  A grown woman can go into it with her eyes open, or a girl who has had decent training can too.  But it’s different with a child.  She has no choice in the matter; they don’t ask her permission; and she isn’t old enough to know what it means; and she gets used to it and fond of it before she grows to know what the danger is.  And then it’s too late.  It seemed to me that if there was any one who had a right to stop it, it would be a very good thing to let that person know about her—­about this child, I mean; the one who made the hit—­before it was too late.  It seems to me a responsibility I wouldn’t care to take myself.  I wouldn’t care to think that I had the chance to stop it, and had let the chance go by.  You know what the life is, and what the temptation a woman—­” Van Bibber stopped with a gasp of concern, and added, hurriedly, “I mean we all know—­every man knows.”