Banneker, considering Gurney’s crow-footed and tired leer, decided that he did not like the critic much.

Back-of-curtain after a successful opening provides a hectic and scrambled scene to the unaccustomed eye.  Hastily presented to a few people, Banneker drifted to one side and, seating himself on a wire chair, contentedly assumed the role of onlooker.  The air was full of laughter and greetings and kisses; light-hearted, offhand, gratulatory kisses which appeared to be the natural currency of felicitation.  Betty Raleigh, lovely, flushed, and athrill with nervous exaltation, flung him a smile as she passed, one hand hooked in the arm of her leading man.

“You’re coming to supper with us later,” she called.

“Am I?” said Banneker.

“Of course.  I’ve got something to ask you.”  She spoke as one expectant of unquestioning obedience:  this was her night of glory and power.

Whether he had been previously bidden in through Gurney, or whether this chance word constituted his invitation, he did not know.  Seeking enlightenment upon the point, he discovered that the critic had disappeared, to furnish his half-column for the morning issue.  La Tarantina, hearing his inquiry, gave him the news in her broken English.  The dancer, lithe, powerful, with the hideous feet and knotty legs typical of her profession, turned her somber, questioning eyes on the stranger: 

“You air Monsieur Ban-kerr, who shoot, n’est-ce-pas?” she inquired.

“My name is Banneker,” he replied.

“Weel you be ver’ good an’ shoot sahmbody for me?”

“With pleasure,” he said, laughing; “if you’ll plead for me with the jury.”

“Zen here he iss.”  She stretched a long and, as it seemed, blatantly naked arm into a group near by and drew forth the roundish man whom Cressey had pointed out at Marrineal’s dinner party.  “He would be unfaithful to me, ziss one.”

“I?  Never!” denied the accused.  He set a kiss in the hollow of the dancer’s wrist.  “How d’ye do, Mr. Banneker,” he added, holding out his hand.  “My name is Eyre.”

“But yess!” cried the dancer.  “He—­what you say it?—­he r-r-r-rave over Miss R-r-raleigh.  He make me jealous.  He shall be shoot at sunrice an’ I weel console me wiz his shooter.”

“Charming programme!” commented the doomed man.  It struck Banneker that he had probably been drinking a good deal, also that he was a very likeable person, indeed.  “If you don’t mind my asking, where the devil did you learn to shoot like that?”

“Oh, out West where I came from.  I used to practice on the pine trees at a little water-tank station called Manzanita”.

“Manzanita!” repeated the other.  “By God!” He swore softly, and stared at the other.

Banneker was annoyed.  Evidently the gossip of which Io’s girl friend had hinted that other night at Sherry’s had obtained wide currency.  Before the conversation could go any further, even had it been likely to after that surprising check, one of the actors came over.  He played the part of an ex-cowboy, who, in the bar-room scene, shot his way out of danger through a circle of gang-men, and he was now seeking from Banneker ostensibly pointers, actually praise.