Hillyard was surprised at the sudden gentleness of his companion’s voice, and looked quickly towards him.  Hardiman answered the look as he got heavily up from his chair.

“I sometimes fear that I have some responsibility for her unhappiness.  But there are things one cannot help.”

The light in the auditorium went down while Hardiman was leaving the box, and the curtain rose on the third act of “The Dark Tower.”  Of that play, however, you may read in the files of the various newspapers, if you will.  This story is concerned with Martin Hillyard, not his work.  It is sufficient to echo the words of Sir Chichester Splay when Hillyard was introduced to him an hour and a half later in the private supper-room at the Semiramis Hotel.

“A good play, Mr. Hillyard.  Not a great play, of course, but quite a good play,” said Sir Chichester with just the necessary patronage to tickle Hillyard to an appreciation of Hardiman’s phrases—­a ten and six-penny Mecaenas.

“I am grateful that it has earned your good opinion,” he replied.

“Oh, not at all!” cried Sir Chichester, and catching a lady who passed by the arm.  “Stella, Mr. Hillyard should know you.  This is Mrs. Croyle.  I hope you will meet him some day at Rackham Park.”

Sir Chichester trotted away to greet the manager of the Daily Harpoon, who was at that moment shaking hands with Hardiman.

“I congratulate you,” said Stella Croyle, as she gave him her hand.

“Thank you.  So you know Sir Chichester well?”

“His wife has been a friend of mine for a long time.”  Her eyes twinkled.  “I wonder you have not been seen at his house.”

“Oh, I am only just hatched out,” said Hillyard.  They both laughed.  “I hardly know a soul here except my leading lady and our host.”

They were summoned to the supper table.  Hillyard found himself with the leading lady on one side of him and Stella Croyle opposite, and Mario Escobar a couple of seats away.  Supper was half through when Escobar leaned suddenly forward.

“Mr. Hillyard, I have seen you before, somewhere and not in England.”

“That is possible.”

“In Spain?”

“Yes,” answered Hillyard.

A certain curiosity in Escobar’s voice, a certain reticence in Hillyard’s, arrested the attention of those about.

“Let me see!” continued Escobar.  “It was in the Opera House at Barcelona on the first performance of Manon Lescaut.”

“No,” replied Hillyard.

“Then—­I know—­it was under the palm-trees in front of the sea at Alicante one night.”

Hillyard nodded.

“That may well have been.  I was up and down the south coast of Spain for three years.  Eighteen months of it were spent at Alicante.”

He turned to his neighbour, but Escobar persisted.

“It was for your health?”

Hillyard did not answer directly.