The telephone at the back of the Circuit Theater was located inside the stage-door and occupied one end of the shelf which separated Mr. Regan’s hole in the wall from the entrance-hall.  It was no place in which to conduct a private conversation, since any one coming or going could hear, but stage telephones are not installed for the convenience of performers.

As Lorelei hurried down the passageway a man in evening dress turned, and she recognized Robert Wharton.

“You are sent from heaven!” he cried, at sight of her.  “I enter out of the night and unburden my heart to this argus-eyed watchman, and, lo! you come flying in answer to my wish.  Quick service, Judge.  In appreciation of your telepathy I present you with some lumbago cure.”  He tossed a bank-note to Regan, who snatched it eagerly on the fly.

Lorelei forestalled further words.  “Please—­I must telephone.  I go on in a minute.”

“Fairy Princess, last night I was a goldfish; to-night I am an enchanted lover—­”

“Wait; I’m in a hurry.”  She thumbed the telephone-book swiftly in search of her number, but young Wharton was not to be silenced.

“Tell him it’s all off,” he commanded.  “You can’t go; I won’t let you.  Promise.”  He laid a hand upon the telephone and eyed her gravely.  “Don’t thwart me—­I’m a dangerous man.  You can’t use our little ’phone unless—­”

“Don’t be silly.  I’m telephoning for some one else.”

“That’s exactly what we can’t permit.  The ‘some one else’ is here —­I’m it.”

“No, no!”

He closed one eye and wagged his head, grasping the instrument more firmly.

“Promise to tell him—­It is a ‘him,’ isn’t it?  Aha’ My intelligence is sublime.  Promise.”

“I slapped you last night; I promise to do it again,” Lorelei told him, sharply.

“Something whispered that you did, and all day long I have been angry; but to-night—­now that I’m in my natural condition—­I pass the insult.  I offer you my hand and my other cheek in case you want to try a left hook.  But I come with another purpose.  Outside is a chariot with ninety horses—­French rating—­champing at the throttle.  We are going away from here.”

“You’re drunk again, Mr. Wharton?”

He glanced at the clock over Regan’s head and shook his head in negation.  “It’s only ten-twenty.  In two hours from now—­”

“Give me that ’phone.”

“Promise to tell him it’s all off.”

She smiled.  “All right.  I’ll use those very words.”

Wharton hesitated.  “I trust you.”

“I’m going to tell him he can’t come,” she said, holding out her hand.

Once the instrument was hers she oscillated the hook with nervous finger, staring doubtfully at the cause of her delay.  Wharton, as on the evening before, carried his intoxication with an air.  He was steady on his feet, immaculate in dress, punctilious in demeanor; only his roving, reckless eye betrayed his unnatural exhilaration.