For twenty minutes she continued, until the place became congested, and never once did the lookout detect an error.

While she was busy, Glenister entered the front-door and pushed his way back towards the theatre.  He was worried and distrait, his manner perturbed and unnatural.  Silently and without apparent notice he passed friends who greeted him.

“What ails Glenister to-night?” asked a by-stander.  “He acts funny,”

“Ain’t you heard?  Why, the Midas has been jumped.  He’s in a bad way—­all broke up.”

The girl suddenly ceased without finishing the deck, and arose.

“Don’t stop,” said the Kid, while a murmur of dismay came from the spectators.  She only shook her head and drew on her gloves with a show of ennui.

Gliding through the crowd, she threaded about aimlessly, the recipient of many stares though but few greetings, speaking with no one, a certain dignity serving her as a barrier even here.  She stopped a waiter and questioned him.

“He’s up-stairs in a gallery box.”

“Alone?”

“Yes’m.  Anyhow, he was a minute ago, unless some of the rustlers has broke in on him.”

A moment later Glenister, watching the scene below, was aroused from his gloomy absorption by the click of the box door and the rustle of silken skirts.

“Go out, please,” he said, without turning.  “I don’t want company.”  Hearing no answer, he began again, “I came here to be alone”—­but there he ceased, for the girl had come forward and laid her two hot hands upon his cheeks.

“Boy,” she breathed—­and he arose swiftly.

“Cherry!  When did you come?”

“Oh, days ago,” she said, impatiently, “from Dawson.  They told me you had struck it.  I stood it as long as I could—­then I came to you.  Now, tell me about yourself.  Let me see you first, quick!”

She pulled him towards the light and gazed upward, devouring him hungrily with her great, languorous eyes.  She held to his coat lapels, standing close beside him, her warm breath beating up into his face,

“Well,” she said, “kiss me!”

He took her wrists in his and loosed her hold, then looked down on her gravely and said: 

“No—­that’s all over.  I told you so when I left Dawson.”

“All over!  Oh no, it isn’t, boy.  You think so, but it isn’t—­it can’t be.  I love you too much to let you go.”

“Hush!” said he.  “There are people in the next box.”

“I don’t care!  Let them hear,” she cried, with feminine recklessness.  “I’m proud of my love for you.  I’ll tell it to them--to the whole world.”

“Now, see here, little girl,” he said, quietly, “we had a long talk in Dawson and agreed that it was best to divide our ways.  I was mad over you once, as a good many other men have been, but I came to my senses.  Nothing could ever result from it, and I told you so.”