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“I don’t want you to,” he said tenderly, taking her hand.

She was extremely happy now that she understood. She loved him the more for thinking that he would rescue her so. As for him, the marriage clause did not dwell in his mind. He was thinking that with such affection there could be no bar to his eventual happiness.

“Let’s stroll about,” he said gayly, rising and surveying all the lovely park.

“All right,” said Carrie.

They passed the young Irishman, who looked after them with envious eyes.

“ ‘Tis a foine couple,” he observed to himself. “They must be rich.”

CHAPTER XVI

A WITLESS ALADDIN:

THE GATE TO THE WORLD

IN THE COURSE OF his present stay in Chicago, Drouet paid some slight attention to the secret order to which he belonged. During his last trip he had received a new light on its importance.

“I tell you,” said another drummer to him, “it’s a great thing. Look at Hazenstab. He isn’t so deuced clever. Of course he’s got a good house behind him, but that won’t do alone. I tell you it’s his degree. He’s a way-up Mason, and that goes a long way. He’s got a secret sign that stands for something.”

Drouet resolved then and there that he would take more interest in such matters. So when he got back to Chicago he repaired to his local lodge headquarters.

“I say, Drouet,” said Mr. Harry Quincel, an individual who was very prominent in this local branch of the Elks, “you’re the man that can help us out.”

It was after the business meeting and things were going socially with a hum. Drouet was bobbing around chatting and joking with a score of individuals whom he knew.

“What are you up to?” he inquired genially, turning a smiling face upon his secret brother.

“We’re trying to get up some theatricals for two weeks from today, and we want to know if you don’t know some young lady who could take a part—it’s an easy part.”

“Sure,” said Drouet, “what is it?” He did not trouble to remember that he knew no one to whom he could appeal on this score. His innate good-nature, however, dictated a favourable reply.

“Well, now, I’ll tell you what we are trying to do,” went on Mr. Quincel. “We are trying to get a new set of furniture for the lodge. There isn’t enough money in the treasury at the present time, and we thought we would raise it by a little entertainment.”

“Sure,” interrupted Drouet, “that’s a good idea.”

“Several of the boys around here have got talent. There’s Harry Burbeck, he does a fine black-face turn. Mac Lewis is all right at heavy dramatics. Did you ever hear him recite ‘Over the Hills’?”q

“Never did.”

“Well, I tell you, he does it fine.”

“And you want me to get some woman to take a part?” questioned Drouet, anxious to terminate the subject and get on to something else. “What are you going to play?”

“ ‘Under the Gaslight,’ ”8 said Mr. Quincel, mentioning Augustin Daly’s famous production, which had worn from a great public success down to an amateur theatrical favourite, with many of the troublesome accessories cut out and the dramatis personae reduced to the smallest possible number.

Drouet had seen this play some time in the past.

“That’s it,” he said; “that’s a fine play. It will go all right. You ought to make a lot of money out of that.”

“We think we’ll do very well,” Mr. Quincel replied. “Don’t you forget now,” he concluded, Drouet showing signs of restlessness; “some young woman to take the part of Laura.”

“Sure, I’ll attend to it.”

He moved away, forgetting almost all about it the moment Mr. Quincel had ceased talking. He had not even thought to ask the time or place.

Drouet was reminded of his promise a day or two later by the receipt of a letter announcing that the first rehearsal was set for the following Friday evening, and urging him to kindly forward the young lady’s address at once, in order that the part might be delivered to her.

“Now, who the deuce do I know?” asked the drummer reflectively, scratching his rosy ear. “I don’t know any one that knows anything about amateur theatricals.”

He went over in memory