Edward Henry did not turn pale.  Still, he was aware that it cost him a trifle over sixty pounds “to ring the curtain up” at every performance—­and this sum took no account of expenses of production nor of author’s fees.  The sum would have been higher, but he was calculating as rent of the theatre only the ground-rent plus six per cent on the total price of the building.

What disgusted him was the duplicity of the first-night audience, and he said to himself violently, “I was right all the time, and I knew I was right!  Idiots!  Chumps!  Of course I was right!”

On the third night the house held twenty-seven pounds and sixpence.

“Naturally,” said Mr. Marrier, “in this hot weathah!  I never knew such a hot June!  It’s the open-air places that are doing us in the eye.  In fact I heard to-day that the White City is packed.  They simply can’t bank their money quick enough.”

It was on that day that Edward Henry paid salaries.  It appeared to him that he was providing half London with a livelihood:  acting-managers, stage-managers, assistant ditto, property men, stage-hands, electricians, prompters, call-boys, box-office staff, general staff, dressers, commissionaires, programme-girls, cleaners, actors, actresses, understudies, to say nothing of Rose Euclid at a purely nominal salary of a hundred pounds a week.  The tenants of the bars were grumbling, but happily he was getting money from them.

The following day was Saturday.  It rained—­a succession of thunderstorms.  The morning and the evening performances produced together sixty-eight pounds.

“Well,” said Mr. Marrier, “in this kind of weathah you can’t expect people to come out, can you?  Besides, this cursed week-ending habit—­”

Which conclusions did not materially modify the harsh fact that Edward Henry was losing over thirty pounds a day—­or at the rate of over ten thousand pounds a year.

He spent Sunday between his hotel and his club, chiefly in reiterating to himself that Monday began a new week and that something would have to occur on Monday.

Something did occur.

Carlo Trent lounged into the office early.  The man was for ever being drawn to the theatre as by an invisible but powerful elastic cord.  The papers had a worse attack than ever of Isabel Joy, for she had been convicted of transgression in a Chicago court of law, but a tremendous lawyer from St. Louis had loomed over Chicago and, having examined the documents in the case, was hopeful of getting the conviction quashed.  He had discovered that in one and the same document “Isabel” had been spelt “Isobel” and—­worse—­Illinois had been deprived by a careless clerk of one of its “l’s.”  He was sure that by proving these grave irregularities in American justice he could win an appeal.

Edward Henry glanced up suddenly from the newspaper.  He had been inspired.

“I say, Trent,” he remarked, without any warning or preparation, “you’re not looking at all well.  I want a change myself.  I’ve a good mind to take you for a sea-voyage.”