“This is an awful place, isn’t it?” he objected.  “You can’t be going in here!”

“One must eat, Duncan!” Mrs. Coppered said blithely, leading the way.  “And all the nice places are closed at this hour!” Duncan sullenly followed; but, in the flood of reminiscences upon which she and Penrose instantly embarked, his voice was not missed.  Mollified in spite of himself by delicious food and strong coffee, he watched them, the man’s face bright through its fatigue, his stepmother glowing and brilliant.

“I’ll see this through for Dad’s sake,” said Duncan, grimly, to himself; “but, when he finds out about it, she’ll have to admit I kicked the whole time!”

At four o’clock they reached the Penroses’ hotel, where rooms were secured for Duncan and Margaret.  The boy, dropping with sleep, heard her cheerfully ask at the desk to be called at seven o’clock.

“I’ve a cloak to buy,” she explained, in answer to his glance of protest, “and a hairdresser to see, and a hat to find—­they may be difficult to get, too!  And I must run out and have just a glimpse of little Phil, and get to the theatre by noon; there’s just a little more going over that second act to do!  But don’t you get up.”

“I would prefer to,” said Duncan, with dignity, taking his key.

But he did not wake until afternoon, when the thin winter sunlight was falling in a dazzling oblong on the floor of his room; and even then he felt a little tired and stiff.  He reached for his watch—­ almost one o’clock!  Duncan’s heart stood still.  Had she overslept?

He sat up a little dazed, and, doing so, saw a note on the little table by his bed.  It was from Margaret, and ran: 

Dear Duncan: 

If you don’t wake by one they’re to call you, for I want you to see Mabel’s entrance.  I’ve managed my hat and cloak, and seen the child--he’s quiet and not in pain, thank God.  Have your breakfast, and then come to the box-office; I’ll leave a seat for you there.  Or come behind and see me, if you will, for I am terribly nervous and would like it.  So glad you’re getting your sleep.  MARGAEET.

P.S.  Don’t worry about the nerves; I always am nervous.

Duncan looked at the note for three silent minutes, sitting on the edge of his bed.

“I’m sorry.  She—­she wanted me.  I wish I’d waked!” he said slowly, aloud.

And ten minutes later, during a hurried dressing, he read the note again, and said, aloud again: 

“‘Have breakfast’!  I wonder if she had hers?”

He entered the theatre so late, for all his hurry, that the first act was over and the second well begun, and was barely in his seat before the now familiar opening words of Mabel Vane’s part fell clearly on the silence of the darkened house.