Into the room came Helena, her face like chalk—­all color gone from even her lips.  She clutched at the window beside the Flopper for support.

“I’m frightened,” she whispered.  “We’ve gone too far—­it’s—­it’s—­John Madison, I’m frightened.”

Madison did not speak for a moment—­Madison was a consummate leader.  He looked, smiling reassuringly, from one to the other—­and then leaned soothingly, confidentially, in over the sill.

“I know how you feel—­felt just the same myself for a bit,” said he quietly.  “But now look here, you’ve got to pull yourselves together—­there’s nothing to be afraid of.  It’s natural enough.  It’s faith, Helena—­and that’s what we were banking on—­only not quite so hard.  That kid and Mrs. Thornton annexed the real brand, that’s all—­and when the genuine thing is on tap I cross my fingers and yell for faith—­there’s nothing to stop it.  And that’s the way it’s got both of you too, eh?  Well, that only makes our game the safer and the more certain, doesn’t it?  So, come on now, pull yourselves together.”

“In de last act when I was gettin’ me head into joint,” mumbled the Flopper, “was when de kid yelled—­I can hear it yet, an’—­”

“Forget it!” Madison broke in a little sharply; then, tactfully, his voice full of unbounded admiration:  “You’re an artist, Flopper—­a wonder.  You pulled the greatest act that was ever on the boards, and you pulled it as no other man on earth could have pulled it.  Flopper, you make me feel humble when I look at you.”

“Swipe me!” said the Flopper, brightening.  “D’ye mean it, Doc—­honest?”

“Mean it!” ejaculated Madison.  “You’re the whole thing, Flopper—­you win.  Come on now, Helena, buck up—­we’ve got another little act due in about fifteen minutes—­don’t let a lot of yowling rubes get your goat.  Why, say, we’ve got the whole show on the stampede—­and we’ve got to rush our luck.”

“Sure!” said the Flopper.  “Dat’s de way to talk—­leave it to de Doc every time—.  I ain’t feazed half de way I was.”

“I’m all right,” said Helena a little tremulously.  “What is it we’re to do?”

“Good!” said Madison, smiling at her approvingly.  “That sounds better.  Now listen—­and listen hard.  From this minute this cottage is the Shrine.  Get that?—­Shrine.  You’ve got to keep the hush falling here, and keep it falling all the time—­a sort of holy, hallowed silence, understand?  Lay it on thick—­make the crowd stand back—­make the guy that comes in here feel as though he ought to come in on his knees and as if he’d be struck dead if he didn’t.  Get the slow music and the low lights working.  And keep the Patriarch well back of the drop except when he’s on for a turn.  Get me?  He’s no side-show with a barker in front of the tent—­don’t forget that for a minute.  The harder it is to see the Patriarch and the less he’s seen, the bigger he plays up when he’s on.  He goes to no man under any conditions, and the only man or woman that gets to him is through faith and supplication, and a double order of it at that.  Keep the solemn, breathless tap turned on all the time.”