They rehearsed it by the old-fashioned boardinghouse clock in the rarely used parlor until its warning click at five minutes to the hour would occur every time exactly half a second before the click of the unloaded revolver that Helen Grimes used in rehearsing the thrilling climax of the sketch.

Yes, that was a thriller and a piece of excellent work.  In the act a real 32-caliber revolver was used loaded with a real cartridge.  Helen Grimes, who is a Western girl of decidedly Buffalo Billish skill and daring, is tempestuously in love with Frank Desmond, the private secretary and confidential prospective son-in-law of her father, “Arapahoe” Grimes, quarter-million-dollar cattle king, owning a ranch that, judging by the scenery, is in either the Bad Lands or Amagansett, L. I. Desmond (in private life Mr. Bob Hart) wears puttees and Meadow Brook Hunt riding trousers, and gives his address as New York, leaving you to wonder why he comes to the Bad Lands or Amagansett (as the case may be) and at the same time to conjecture mildly why a cattleman should want puttees about his ranch with a secretary in ’em.

Well, anyhow, you know as well as I do that we all like that kind of play, whether we admit it or not—­something along in between “Bluebeard, Jr.,” and “Cymbeline” played in the Russian.

There were only two parts and a half in “Mice Will Play.”  Hart and Cherry were the two, of course; and the half was a minor part always played by a stage hand, who merely came in once in a Tuxedo coat and a panic to announce that the house was surrounded by Indians, and to turn down the gas fire in the grate by the manager’s orders.

There was another girl in the sketch—­a Fifth Avenue society swelless—­who was visiting the ranch and who had sirened Jack Valentine when he was a wealthy club-man on lower Third Avenue before he lost his money.  This girl appeared on the stage only in the photographic state—­Jack had her Sarony stuck up on the mantel of the Amagan—­of the Bad Lands droring room.  Helen was jealous, of course.

And now for the thriller.  Old “Arapahoe” Grimes dies of angina pectoris one night—­so Helen informs us in a stage-ferryboat whisper over the footlights—­while only his secretary was present.  And that same day he was known to have had $647,000 in cash in his (ranch) library just received for the sale of a drove of beeves in the East (that accounts for the price we pay for steak!).  The cash disappears at the same time.  Jack Valentine was the only person with the ranchman when he made his (alleged) croak.

“Gawd knows I love him; but if he has done this deed—­” you sabe, don’t you?  And then there are some mean things said about the Fifth Avenue Girl—­who doesn’t come on the stage—­and can we blame her, with the vaudeville trust holding down prices until one actually must be buttoned in the back by a call boy, maids cost so much?

But, wait.  Here’s the climax.  Helen Grimes, chaparralish as she can be, is goaded beyond imprudence.  She convinces herself that Jack Valentine is not only a falsetto, but a financier.  To lose at one fell swoop $647,000 and a lover in riding trousers with angles in the sides like the variations on the chart of a typhoid-fever patient is enough to make any perfect lady mad.  So, then!