Hillyard looked down at Sir Chichester Splay and smiled at his companion’s description.

“You will meet him to-night at supper, and if your play is a success—­not otherwise—­you will stay with him in Sussex.”

“No!” cried Hillyard; but Sir Charles was relentless in his insistence.

“You will.  His wife will see to that.  Who the pretty girl beside him is I do not know.  But the more or less young man on the other side of her, talking to her with an air of intimacy a little excessive in a public place, is Mario Escobar.  He is a Spaniard, and has the skin-deep politeness of his race.  He is engaged in some sort of business, frequents some sort of society into which he is invited by the women, and he is not very popular amongst men.  He belongs, however, to some sort of club.  That is all I know about him.  One would think he had guessed we were speaking of him,” Hardiman added.

For at that moment Mario Escobar raised his dark, sleek head, and his big, soft eyes—­the eyes of a beautiful woman—­looked upwards to the box.  It seemed to Hillyard for a moment that they actually exchanged a glance, though he himself was out of sight behind the curtain, so direct was Escobar’s gaze.  It was, however, merely the emptiness of the box which had drawn the Spaniard’s attention.  He was neatly groomed, of a slight figure, tall, and with his eyes, his thin olive face, his small black moustache and clean-cut jaw he made without doubt an effective and arresting figure.

“Now turn your head,” said Hardiman, “the other way, and notice the big, fair man in the back row of the stalls.  He is a rival manager, and he is explaining in a voice loud enough to be heard by the first rows of the pit, the precise age of your leading lady.  Now look down!  There is a young girl flitting about the stalls.  She is an actress, not very successful.  But to-night she is as busy as a bee.  She is crabbing your play.  Yesterday her opinion on the subject was of no value, and it will be again of no value to-morrow.  But as one of the limited audience on a first night, she can do just a tiny bit of harm.  But don’t hold it against her, Hillyard!  She has no feeling against you.  This is her little moment of importance.”

Sir Charles rattled on through the interval—­all good nature with just a slice of lemon—­and it had happened that he had pointed out one who was to be the instrument of great trouble for Hillyard and a few others, with whom this story is concerned.

Hillyard interrupted Hardiman.

“Who is the girl at the end of the sixth row, who seems to have stepped down from a china group on a mantelpiece?”

“That one?” said Hardiman, and all the raillery faded from his face.  “That is Mrs. Croyle.  You will meet her to-night at my supper party.”  He hesitated as to what further he should say.  “You might do worse than be a friend to her.  She is not, I am afraid, very happy.”