“Royalties,” prompted Marion, in an eager aside.

The men laughed.  “Quite right,” Wimpole assented, good-humoredly; “it’s a poor sportsman who doesn’t back his own horse.  Well, then, until to-morrow.”

“But,” Carroll began, “one moment, please.  I haven’t thanked you.”

“My dear boy,” cried Wimpole, waving him away with his stick, “it is I who have to thank you.”

“And—­and there is a condition,” Carroll said, “which goes with the play.  It is that Miss Cavendish is to have the part of Nancy.”

Wimpole looked serious and considered for a moment.

“Nancy,” he said, “the girl who interferes—­a very good part.  I have cast Miss Maddox for it in my mind, but, of course, if the author insists—­”

Marion, with her elbows on the table, clasped her hands appealingly before her.

“Oh, Mr. Wimpole!” she cried, “you owe me that, at least.”

Carroll leaned over and took both of Marion’s hands in one of his.

“It’s all right,” he said; “the author insists.”

Wimpole waved his stick again as though it were the magic wand of the good fairy.

“You shall have it,” he said.  “I recall your performance in ’The New Boy’ with pleasure.  I take the play, and Miss Cavendish shall be cast for Nancy.  We shall begin rehearsals at once.  I hope you are a quick study.”

“I’m letter-perfect now,” laughed Marion.

Wimpole turned at the door and nodded to them.  They were both so young, so eager, and so jubilant that he felt strangely old and out of it.  “Good-by, then,” he said.

“Good-by, sir,” they both chorused.  And Marion cried after him, “And thank you a thousand times.”

He turned again and looked back at them, but in their rejoicing they had already forgotten him.  “Bless you, my children,” he said, smiling.  As he was about to close the door a young girl came down the passage toward it, and as she was apparently going to Carroll’s rooms, the actor left the door open behind him.

Neither Marion nor Carroll had noticed his final exit.  They were both gazing at each other as though, could they find speech, they would ask if it were true.

“It’s come at last, Marion,” Philip said, with an uncertain voice.

“I could weep,” cried Marion.  “Philip,” she exclaimed, “I would rather see that play succeed than any play ever written, and I would rather play that part in it than—­Oh, Philip,” she ended, “I’m so proud of you!” and rising, she threw her arms about his neck and sobbed on his shoulder.

Carroll raised one of her hands and kissed the tips of her fingers gently.  “I owe it to you, Marion,” he said—­“all to you.”

This was the tableau that was presented through the open door to Miss Helen Cabot, hurrying on her errand of restitution and goodwill, and with Philip’s ring and watch clasped in her hand.  They had not heard her, nor did they see her at the door, so she drew back quickly and ran along the passage and down the stairs into the street.