Through this exciting performance Phoebe sat with a vague and increasing sense of loneliness and distrust.  She did not know that Hooker had added to his ordinary inventive exaggeration the form of dramatic composition.  But she had early detected the singular fact that such shadowy outlines of plot as the piece possessed were evidently based on his previous narrative of his own experiences, and the saving of Susy Peyton—­by himself!  There was the episode of their being lost on the plains, as he had already related it to her, with the addition of a few years to Susy’s age and some vivid picturesqueness to himself as Red Dick.  She was not, of course, aware that the part of the giddy worldling was Jim’s own conception of the character of Clarence.  But what, even to her provincial taste, seemed the extravagance of the piece, she felt, in some way, reflected upon the truthfulness of the story she had heard.  It seemed to be a parody on himself, and in the laughter which some of the most thrilling points produced in certain of the audience, she heard an echo of her own doubts.  But even this she could have borne if Jim’s confidence had not been given to the general public; it was no longer hers alone, she shared it with them.  And this strange, bold girl, who acted with him,—­the “Blanche Belville” of the bills,—­how often he must have told her the story, and yet how badly she had learned it!  It was not her own idea of it, nor of him.  In the last extravagant scene she turned her weary and half-shamed eyes from the stage and looked around the theatre.  Among a group of loungers by the wall a face that seemed familiar was turned towards her own with a look of kindly and sympathetic recognition.  It was the face of Clarence Brant.  When the curtain fell, and she and her father rose to go, he was at their side.  He seemed older and more superior looking than she had ever thought him before, and there was a gentle yet sad wisdom in his eyes and voice that comforted her even while it made her feel like crying.

“You are satisfied that no harm has come to our friend,” he said pleasantly.  “Of course you recognized him?”

“Oh, yes; we met him to-day,” said Phoebe.  Her provincial pride impelled her to keep up a show of security and indifference.  “We are going to supper with him.”

Clarence slightly lifted his brows.

“You are more fortunate than I am,” he said smilingly.  “I only arrived here at seven, and I must leave at midnight.”

Phoebe hesitated a moment, then said with affected carelessness:—­

“What do you think of the young girl who plays with him?  Do you know her?  Who is she?”

He looked at her quickly, and then said, with some surprise:—­

“Did he not tell you?”

“She was the adopted daughter of Mrs. Peyton,—­Miss Susan Silsbee,” he said gravely.

“Then she did run away from home as they said,” said Phoebe impulsively.