Green Fancy

"Homesick already?" demanded Mr. Bacon, fixing her with a pitying stare.

"Worrying over my part," she explained.

"Haven't you committed it yet? Say it now. 'It is half past seven, my lord.' All you have to do is to remember that it comes in the second act and not in the first or third."

"Good night," said Miss Cameron, giving her hand to Barnes at the door. She was leaning on Miss Thackeray's arm. He never was to forget the deep, searching look she sent into his eyes. She seemed to be asking a thousand questions.

He went down to the dingy lobby. A single, half-hearted electric bulb shed its feeble light on the desk, in front of which stood a man registering under the sleepy eye of the night clerk.

After the late arrival had started upstairs in the wake of the clerk, Barnes stepped up to inspect the book. The midnight express from the north did not stop at Crowndale, he had learned upon inquiry, and it was the only train touching the town between nightfall and dawn.

The register bore the name of Thomas Moore, Hornville. There was not the slightest doubt in Barnes's mind that this was the man who had been detailed to shadow the luckless Peter. Only an imperative demand by government authorities could have brought about the stopping of the express at Hornville and later on at Crowndale.

Barnes smiled grimly. "I've just thought of a way to fool you, my friend," he said to himself, and was turning away when a familiar voice assailed him.

Whirling, he looked into the face of a man who stood almost at his elbow,--the sharp, impassive face of Mr. Sprouse.