“I think Miss Challoner will never act again.  She has always been an enigma to the majority of the show people.  Never any trumpets, jewelry, petty squabbles, lime-lights, and silks; she never read criticisms, save those I sent her.  Managers had to knock on her dressing-room door.  Oh, I do not say that she is an absolute paragon, but I do say that she is a good woman, of high ideals, loyal, generous, frank, and honest.  And I have often wondered why the devil I couldn’t fall in love with her myself,” moodily.

Bennington was silent for a moment.  Finally he said:  “How does it feel to be famous, to have plays produced simultaneously in New York and London?”

“After the first success there is never anything but hard work.  A failure once in a while acts like a tonic.  And sometimes we get an anonymous letter that refreshes us—­a real admirer, who writes from the heart and doesn’t fish for a letter or an autograph in return.  I received one of these only a few days ago, and I want you to read it.”  Warrington produced the missive and tossed it into Bennington’s hands.  “Read that.  It’s worth while to get a letter like that one.”

Bennington took up the letter, smiling at his friend’s enthusiasm.  A single glance at the graceful script, however, changed his expression.  He sat back and stared at Warrington.

“What’s the matter?”

Bennington did not answer, but settled down to his task, reading carefully and slowly.  He did not look for any signature, for he knew there would be none.  He returned the letter, his face sober, but his eyes dancing.

“Now, what the deuce do you see that is so amusing?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Don’t tell me there isn’t any romance in the world.  But, hang it, Jack, I’m not worth a letter like that,” earnestly.

“Of course not.”

“I’m not jesting.  I’ve sown wild oats, and God knows what the harvest will be.  There’s a law that exacts payment.  Retribution is the only certain thing in this world.”

“Oh, you’re no worse than the average man.  But the average man is jolly bad,” Bennington added gravely.  “But you, Dick; I’m not worrying about you.  Perhaps the writer of that letter sees good in you that you can’t see yourself; good that is in you but of which you are unconscious. 0ne thing, you have never besmirched the talents God gave you.  Everything you have done has been clean and wholesome—­like yourself.”

“I wish I could believe that!  But I’ve had no ties, Jack, none.  You can’t keep to a course without a compass.  The real good in life, the good that makes life worth while, is the toil for those you love.  I love nobody, not even myself.  But this girl rather woke me up.  I began to look inward, as they say.  So far I’ve not discovered much good.  I’d give a good deal to meet this writer.”

“Doubtless you will find her charming.”

Suddenly Warrington turned upon his friend.  “But what I want to know is, what brought you around here this time o’ night?  I never knew you to do anything without a definite purpose.”