“Fine.” Johnny folded his hands and waited patiently for the next

question. Peggy suddenly felt herself caught up in a mystery she didn’t

understand. It was clear to her that Johnny Dwyer was not going to

co-operate even though he had the information Peter wanted so

desperately. She waited for the next move anxiously.

Peter leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees.

“Johnny,” he said with quiet sincerity, “let me explain why we want to

get in touch with Tom Agate.” He proceeded to tell Johnny about

_Innocent Laughter_ and the part reserved for Tom. “It’s a wonderful

opportunity for him,” he concluded. “And, of course, I’m convinced that

Tom would be ideal in the part.”

Johnny Dwyer sat perfectly still for several seconds after Peter had

finished talking. At last he lifted himself to his feet, picked up his

cane, and walked over to the window. Peggy noticed again how tiny and

fragile he looked. “Peter, my boy,” he said finally, “I’m glad you feel

that way about Tom. It’s nice to know that somebody still remembers

him.”

“I’m sure that thousands of people all over the country remember him!”

Peter interrupted excitedly.

Johnny smiled and nodded. “Perhaps. But Tom had his reasons for leaving

when he did, and I don’t think anybody has the right to force him back.

It’s a decision he’s got to make.”

Peter got up and walked over to Johnny. “I agree with you,” he said.

“But we’re not going to force him. All I want is a chance to talk to

him. He can make up his own mind.”

The two men—one old, the other young—stood staring at each other. Johnny

Dwyer looked into Peter’s eyes as though he were trying to read his

mind, then turned away. “No,” he said. “Get somebody else.”

Peter sighed and returned to his chair. “You say you saw Tom four years

ago?”

“Mm-hm.” Johnny gave a little birdlike bob with his head.

Peter looked up abruptly. “Tell me something, Johnny. Was he happy?” The

question was sharp and unexpected. For the first time Johnny seemed

uncertain of his answer. “Or did he miss the theater?”

Johnny groped his way over to his chair and sank down. There was a

troubled expression on his face. “Yes,” he said in a very quiet voice.

“He missed the stage.” He looked over at Peggy and Peter. “You two,” he

said, “you’ve been working in the theater for how long? Two years? Four

years? Five years? Well, Tom Agate spent thirty years of his life on

stage. It was everything he knew—and almost everything he loved.”

“_Almost_ everything?” The question came almost automatically, before

Peggy had a chance to think about it. Johnny looked at her oddly. It was

the first time she had spoken during the interview.

“Don’t ask me any more,” he said. “Just leave Tom alone.”

Peter shook his head stubbornly. “Why don’t you help us give Tom a

chance to find happiness again?”

“By coming back to the theater?”

“Yes.”

“He’d never do it. I told you that.”

“Maybe he’s changed his mind.”

Johnny smiled and shook his head regretfully. Suddenly Peggy was on her

feet, talking quickly and earnestly.

“Mr. Dwyer,” she said, “we don’t want to pry into Mr. Agate’s personal

life. You said yourself no one should poke his nose into someone else’s

business. Well, I agree. But at the same time you just admitted that he

was unhappy and missed the theater. You said it was his whole life.

Sometimes, Mr. Dwyer, people need help. They need to have their eyes

opened so they can see the life they’re missing. The life that belongs

to them if only they reach out and take it. Doesn’t Mr. Agate deserve a

second chance? I—I don’t know what happened fifteen years ago. I don’t

know why he left the stage and I wouldn’t dream of asking him.”

“Then what _do_ you want to ask him?”

“I want to ask him to come back to the life he loves,” Peggy said

simply.

“I tried that myself,” Johnny said. “It didn’t work.”

Peggy pulled a chair over beside Johnny and looked into his face.

“Sometimes,” she said gently, “the wrong person does the asking.”

Johnny stared at her in surprise. “What do you mean?”

Peggy was flushed and embarrassed at what she was about to say, but she

held her ground. “We’re young,” she said as kindly as she could. “We’re

still part of the theater he misses so much. If _we_ want him back,

that’s different from....” Her voice trailed off in confusion as she

anxiously watched Johnny’s reaction.

Johnny nodded in comprehension. “Different from an old fellow like me

doing the asking. Somebody who’s through, himself. Is that what you

mean?”

“Yes,” Peggy said almost in a whisper. “Except for one thing. You’re not

through. You’ve still got your work. People need you—the newspaper needs

you. Nobody needs Tom Agate, and he probably thinks nobody wants him.”

She stood up and looked down at him. “But we want him.”

Johnny passed a hand over his face and rested his chin on the head of

his cane. Slowly his head began to nod. “You’re right,” he said at last.

“By gollies, I think you are.” He turned to Peter with an appreciative

chuckle. “You should have let her do the talking right from the start.”

“Then you’ll help us?” Peggy cried eagerly.

Johnny got up and hobbled energetically over to a pile of scrapbooks.

“I’ll do all I can,” he said. “But I’m afraid it’s not going to be

much.”

“Johnny!” Peter was over beside the old man, clapping him

enthusiastically on the back.

“Take it easy, now,” Johnny protested. “Frankly, I’d give a lot to see

Tom Agate back on the stage. Remember that old song of his, ‘Kathleen

Aroon’?”

Johnny was chuckling happily now, as if he had been relieved of a great

burden of responsibility.

“Hold on.” Peter laughed. “He won’t be doing any songs in _Innocent

Laughter_. It’s a straight play.”

“What a pity,” Johnny sighed. “Did you ever hear him sing?” he asked

Peggy. “I guess not,” he said before she could answer. “You’d be too

young. But that was his theme song. He used to sing it everywhere. I

think he included it in every show he ever played.”

“How does it go?” Peggy asked.

“Like this.” Johnny turned and faced them.

_“Why should we parted be, Kathleen Aroon,

When thy fond heart’s with me, Kathleen Aroon?

Come to these golden skies,

Bright days for us may rise,

Oh! dry those tearful eyes, Kathleen Aroon.”_

Even though Johnny sang with the thin voice of an old man, Peggy found

herself listening to every phrase. When he finished, she held out her

hands to him.

“That was beautiful,” she breathed. “I never knew that such a simple

song could be so lovely.”

Johnny smiled modestly. “You should have heard Tom do it,” he said. “It

always seemed to have a special meaning for him.”

Beside her, Peggy could feel Peter fidgeting restlessly. “Say, I’m sorry

to break this up,” he said, “but I’ve got to get back to the office. Can

we have Tom Agate’s address?”

Johnny shook his head regretfully. “That’s just the trouble. I’m afraid

he may have moved. All I’ve got is the place where he lived four years

ago.”

“But mightn’t he still be there?” Peter asked anxiously.

Johnny shrugged. “I don’t know. You can try.”

“Well, where is it?”

Johnny wrote out an address that Peggy recognized as a place out in the

suburbs beyond the city.

“That’s the best I can do,” Johnny said. “You can inquire there.”

“Great.” Peter took the paper and handed it over to Peggy. “That’s your

job, Sherlock Holmes. Let’s hope you find him.”

“Wait a minute,” Peggy said, grabbing Peter by the arm. “I don’t even

know what he looks like.”

“That’s easy,” Johnny said. “I’ve got a million photographs. Let me get

you one. I’ll try to get the best likeness for you.” He disappeared down

a narrow aisle of file cases. A moment later he was back, blowing the

dust from a large glossy photo. “Here,” he said, holding it out. “That’s

just about the way he looks today. It was taken during the war.”

The picture showed a rather ordinary-appearing man. At first glance

there was nothing particularly unusual about Tom Agate. But a closer

look revealed a quality of gentle, almost melancholy, humor that seemed

to dominate his face. Peggy held it out at arm’s length. “He looks so

sad,” she said. “Somehow I expected him to be gay.”

“What did you think he’d be like?” Johnny asked quietly. “A circus

clown?”

“No,” Peggy said. She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Johnny said hastily. “All great clowns are sad.

Or didn’t you know that?” He took the photograph from her, slipped it

into a plain Manila envelope and returned it. “Here you are,” he said.

“And good luck to you. I hope you find him.”

Peggy tucked the envelope under her arm and extended her hand. “Thanks a

lot,” she said warmly. “We’ll let you know how we make out.”

Johnny walked them to the door of his office. “You do that,” he said.

“And when you find Tom Agate, give him my regards.” He held the door

Open. “Tell him for me that he was a fool ever to have listened to

Johnny Dwyer. Tell him—tell him that his friends are waiting for him.

It’s been too long.” He smiled and gripped their hands in farewell.

Paradise Avenue, just beyond New York City, in Astoria, stretched out in

a straight, treeless line of two-family brick houses, each set back

about thirty feet from the sidewalk. In general appearance, all the

buildings were pretty much alike, although here and there a gaily

painted front porch and cottage shutters hinted at the presence of a

more imaginative homeowner.

The street was almost deserted. But then it was nearly one-thirty. The

men were away at their jobs and the children at school. Peggy looked at

the envelope in her hand. The address read 3612 Paradise Avenue. The bus

driver had given her precise directions. This should be the 3600 block.

Peggy moved slowly down the street, searching for the first house

number. There it was—3601. That meant the house she wanted must be

diagonally across the street. Peggy trotted over, ticked off the

numbers, and stopped in front of a reddish-brown brick house. She turned

up the walk, mounted the stairs, and reached out for the bell. As she

touched it, she felt a strange sense of excitement build up inside her.

The bell echoed hollowly. Peggy pressed it a second time.

“Just a minute!” came a woman’s voice.

Peggy stepped back and waited. Then she saw that the brick wasn’t brick

at all, but some sort of imitation material. All the houses on the block

must have been built the same way. It told of a lower middle-class

neighborhood that prided itself on neatness and hoped for better times

to come.

Suddenly, without warning, the door swung open and Peggy was face to

face with a middle-aged woman who peered at her suspiciously. When she

saw her caller was a young girl, the woman opened the door a little

wider.

“Yes?” she asked.

Peggy put on her most pleasant smile and moved forward. “Good

afternoon,” she said. “I’m looking for someone. A Mr. Tom Agate. Does he

live here?”

“Agate?” The woman said. She shook her head slowly. “Nobody by that name

here.”

“I know he lived here four years ago,” Peggy said hopefully. “He was an

elderly gentleman.”

“Retired?”

Peggy’s heart leaped. “Yes. He was retired.”

The woman opened the door all the way and motioned Peggy inside. “There

_was_ a retired gentleman living with us. He rented the rear bedroom.

But his name was Anderson.”

Peggy reached for the photograph. “I wonder if you’d recognize him if

you saw his picture?”

The lady of the house nodded unhesitatingly. “Oh, yes, I’d know him.”

She squinted at the photograph, took a closer look and blinked. “Let me

get my glasses,” she said, turning away to go into the living room. “And

shut the front door. It’s getting chilly.”

Peggy did as she was told and waited for the woman’s return. The tiny

front hall was spotlessly clean and cheerily decorated with flowered

prints and a single gold-framed mirror over a mahogany console table.

Both furniture and floors were polished to a high gloss. Peggy sensed

that this was a home where everything was dusted twice a day and where

nothing was allowed to disturb a well-established routine.

“Are you a relative of Mr. Anderson’s?” The woman was back with a pair

of plain glasses perched on her nose. Peggy saw that she was wearing

soft bedroom slippers which accounted for her silent tread.

“Not exactly,” Peggy admitted. She wondered how to explain her interest.

The real story would be too complicated to tell. “I’m just a friend.

Actually,” she added hastily, “a friend of a friend. You see,” she said

with sudden inspiration, “Mr. Agate—the man I’m looking for—has had a

stroke of good fortune, and I’ve been assigned the job of finding him.”

The woman stared at Peggy with new respect. “I see,” she said solemnly.

“Then you’re a private investigator?”

“Well, sort of,” Peggy answered.

The woman leaned forward. “Did he fall into an inheritance?” she asked

in a hushed voice.

Peggy gulped and spoke in an equally quiet voice. “I’m afraid I can’t

talk about it,” she whispered.

The woman nodded conspiratorially. “I quite understand, my dear. Forgive

me for asking.”

Peggy reassured her with a smile and held out the photograph. The woman

studied it for a moment and slowly began to nod her head. “That’s the

man,” she said at last. “That’s Mr. Anderson. I always said he was a

real gentleman. Even though he did play the banjo.” She said the last

with just a trace of exasperation as though playing the banjo was far

too frivolous an occupation for a reliable person.

“Yes,” Peggy said excitedly. “That would be Mr. Agate.”

The woman shook her head sadly. “I wonder why he changed his name?” Her

expression hardened into a severe frown of disapproval. “It doesn’t

sound like the proper thing to do. I mean, it sounds as if he wanted to

hide something. I never would have let him stay here if I’d known about

that.”

“I’m sure you’re very careful,” Peggy broke in. “But—”

“This is a respectable house,” the woman said primly.

“Oh, I can see that,” Peggy assured her. “But when did Mr. Agate leave

you? And do you know where he went?”

Tom Agate’s erstwhile landlady pressed her lips together in a thin line.

“I don’t know anything about him,” she said shortly. “You just can’t

trust people these days. Why, I was saying to Maude Benson the other

day....”

Peggy realized that she was going to have to think and talk quickly in

order to get information out of the woman. “I know how you must feel,”

Peggy soothed. She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “But Mr.

Agate’s had a very sad life.”

The woman stopped and stared at Peggy with fresh interest. “Really!”

“Oh, yes,” Peggy said gravely. “He was orphaned at an early age. The

only person to take care of him was a distant cousin who tried to

disinherit him.”

The woman was clearly shocked. “No!”

“Yes. You see, Mr. Agate is the rightful heir to the Agate fortune.”

Peggy held her fingers up to her lips. “Now you mustn’t breathe this to

a soul.” The woman nodded breathlessly. “But Mr. Agate is the only son

of Henry Agate. You know,” she prompted, “_the_ Agate family. One of the

wealthiest in America.”

The woman looked at Peggy in round-eyed wonder. “Oh, yes,” she said.

“The Agates.”

“Of course, everybody’s heard of them,” Peggy said in an offhanded

manner. “And that’s why Mr. Agate didn’t like to use the name.”

The woman brightened considerably. “Isn’t that the most romantic thing

you ever heard of!” she practically crooned. “And to think that he was

living right in our house! Just wait until I tell Maude!”

“Oh, you mustn’t!” Peggy cautioned. “You promised!”

“That’s right, I did.” She patted Peggy on the shoulder. “Don’t worry,

my dear, you can trust me.”

“Well, now,” Peggy went on in a more businesslike voice, “have you any

idea where we can find Mr. Agate?” She put a slight emphasis on the “we”

in order to give the woman a feeling that she was part of the search.

The woman suddenly clapped her hands together. “I just remembered

something. When Mr. Agate left here two years ago he told me where he

was going. It was a place way over in Baywater on the other side of Long

Island. I remember thinking it was rather strange to go so far off, but

then he said he wanted to live near the ocean.”

“Did he give an address?”

The woman shook her head regretfully. “No, he refused to leave any. He

said there wouldn’t be any mail. And there wasn’t.”

“Can’t you remember anything more than that?”

The woman closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said slowly. “He let the address

slip once. It was Tidewater Road, I’m sure of that.”

“And the number?”

There was a sigh. “I can’t—wait a minute. I think it was twenty-nine

hundred something Tidewater Road.” She opened her eyes eagerly. “Yes, I

know it was. It was the twenty-nine-hundred block.”

Peggy hurriedly slipped the photograph back in its envelope. “Well,

thank you very much,” she said. “You’ve been most helpful.”

“I wish I could have done more for poor Mr. Agate. He really was such a

nice gentleman.”

“If I locate him, I’ll give him your regards,” Peggy promised.

The woman danced nervously around Peggy, obviously reluctant to see her

go. “Won’t you stay for a cup of tea, my dear?”

Peggy declined as gracefully as she could. “I’m afraid I can’t. I’m

going to have to get to Baywater this afternoon.”

The woman was now eager to help. “If you take the number fourteen bus

down at the end of the block, it will get you to the Long Island

Railroad Station. I’m sorry I don’t have a timetable.”

“That’s perfectly all right,” Peggy said, edging toward the door. “I’ll

be able to manage. Thank you again.” Peggy turned the handle of the

front door and stepped out on the porch.

As Peggy fled down the steps, she heard a muffled “good-by” as the door

slammed shut. That would be the woman on her way to the telephone to

tell Maude Whatever-her-name-was all about the famous Mr. Agate. Well,

let her, Peggy thought to herself with a smile. No harm in that.

She directed her footsteps to the bus stop at the corner. “Tidewater

Road,” she murmured to herself. “Not much to go on, but I’m not going to

give up now.”

IX

The One-Eyed Giant

Paradise Avenue, with its imitation brick houses and neat garden plots,

might have had some pretensions, but Tidewater Road had none. Here the

houses were built of frame, most of them in need of a new coat of paint,

many of them badly wanting repairs. Even the streets seemed uncared for.

Scraps of old newspapers rustled in the gutters, and the pavement itself

was cracked and worn. Looking at its bleak row of buildings, Peggy felt

like catching the next train back to the city. Tom Agate couldn’t be

living here.

She had to remind herself that she had made a promise as she crossed the

street and approached the first house on the block. A child’s tricycle,

one wheel twisted awkwardly out of shape, lay on its side across the

steps. Peggy picked her way gingerly around it, crossed the porch, and

put her finger on the bell. No sound came from the house so she tried

knocking.

“Yeah?” came a thin, querulous voice, but inside the house nothing

moved.

Peggy stepped back, wondering what to do next. “Excuse me,” she called

at last. “I wonder if you could give me some information.”

“We don’t want none,” answered the same voice.

“I’m not selling anything,” Peggy replied. “I just want some help.”

There was a moment’s silence and then the shuffling of feet. A

suspicious face appeared at the door and examined Peggy narrowly. It was

an older woman, dressed in a worn housecoat with her hair up in pin

curls.

“Yeah? Whatcha want?”

Peggy fumbled at her envelope and drew out the photograph. “I’m trying

to locate somebody,” she said. “I understand that he lives in this

neighborhood, and I wonder if you know him?” She held out the picture

for inspection.

The door opened a little wider as the woman leaned down to examine the

photograph. The pin curls gave a decisive shake.

“Naw. Never saw him.”

The next instant the door was slammed shut and Peggy found herself alone

on the porch. She made her way carefully back down the steps and out to

the sidewalk. Finding Tom Agate was going to be much harder than she had

anticipated.

There was no answer at the next house. In the one following lived a

woman who spoke no English. The trail became warmer at the third house

where a woman said she thought the face looked familiar, but couldn’t

place it. The next five houses were blanks.

By now it was well after four o’clock in the afternoon. Peggy knew she

had time for only two or three more calls before taking the train back

to New York. Peter Grey had arranged to meet her at the Broadway

Drugstore on Forty-eighth Street at eight-thirty, giving her barely

enough time to get back to the city, bolt down some supper, and keep her

appointment. But the next three houses could give her no fresh

information and Peggy decided that she had had enough for one day. She

would return in the morning and finish the rest of the houses on the

block.

As she turned to retrace her footsteps to the bus stop on the corner,

her eye was caught by a bright flash of color. Four doors down from

where she stood was a house decorated with two window boxes full of fall

flowers. Peggy wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before. The house

itself was weatherworn, and like all the other houses on the block, in

need of a fresh coat of paint. But somehow it gave the impression of a

home that had been carefully tended. The porch was neat, the lawn had

been recently raked of leaves, and someone had even tried to trim the

hedges. Standing in the midst of such careless neglect, the house seemed

to sparkle with life and friendly invitation.

Before she realized it, Peggy was standing at the front door, listening

to a set of chimes peal softly at her touch. The door was opened by a

pleasant-looking woman who was drying her hands on a towel. When she saw

Peggy, her face broke into a smile of welcome.

“Come in,” she said. “You caught me washing some things in the kitchen.”

Peggy stepped into a clean, simply furnished front hall. “I’m sorry to

interrupt you,” she said. “But I’m trying to locate someone, and I

thought maybe you could help me.” Peggy displayed her photograph again

and waited for the reaction. But this time, instead of a blank stare and

a quick shake of the head, she was met with an exclamation of surprise.

“But that’s Mr. Armour!” the woman cried in a delighted voice.

“Mr. Armour?”

“Yes. He lived with us for over a year and a half.”

“You mean he’s moved?” Peggy heard the disappointment in her own voice.

Tom Agate had chosen another name.

“I’m afraid he has,” the woman said. She beckoned Peggy into the living

room. “Here, won’t you come in for a few moments? You look tired.”

“Well, yes, I am,” Peggy admitted. “I’ve been going since early this

morning.”

“Trying to find Mr. Armour?” the woman asked, sitting down in an easy

chair.

Peggy nodded as she took a chair near the door. “Yes. It’s a terribly

complicated story, but believe me, it’s important that I locate him.”

“I’ll be happy to tell you all I know,” the woman said. “A little less

than two years ago, Mr. Armour rang my front doorbell and asked if he

could rent a room. Well, I had never rented a room before, but it just

so happened that my son had recently left home.” The woman smiled shyly.

“He had just gotten married, you see.”

Peggy smiled back and nodded.

“He has a little baby girl now. Lives in upstate New York. We’ll be

going to see them for Thanksgiving.” The woman paused and laughed. “But

you don’t want to hear about that. Anyway,” she said, returning to her

story, “I told him all right and about a week later he moved in. Well,

we couldn’t have had a nicer man in our house—not even if we had picked

him ourselves. Always cheerful he was, and very quiet.”

“You say he was quiet?” Peggy interrupted. “Didn’t he ever play the

banjo?”

The woman beamed. “He certainly did. He used to play it for us in the

evenings. He was very good, you know.”

Peggy nodded. “Yes, I know. Do you remember any of the tunes he used to

play?”

“Let’s see now. Well, he played all the old favorites—Stephen Foster and

... oh, I can’t remember what-all.”

“Did he ever play ‘Kathleen Aroon’?”

“How did you know that?” the woman cried. “That was one he did all the

time. Beautiful too. Simply lovely.”

Peggy sighed. It must have been Tom Agate. She wondered if he was still

calling himself Armour. He seemed to change his name each time he moved.

“What happened to him?” she asked.

“He left us. About three months ago.”

Three months! Peggy almost groaned aloud. “Have you any idea where he

went?”

The woman shook her head slowly. “No. He didn’t leave a forwarding

address. He said there wouldn’t be any mail.”

This matched the story Peggy had heard earlier that afternoon. “He

didn’t give you any hint about where he was going?”

“No. None at all.” The woman looked at Peggy sympathetically. “I’m

sorry. I wish I could help you, but I’m afraid....”

“Do you know why he left?”

The woman paused and stared down at the floor. “I think so,” she said in

a troubled voice. “It was because he couldn’t afford to pay the rent any

more. I was perfectly willing to let him stay, but he insisted on going.

He said that he couldn’t allow himself to accept charity. I tried to

explain that his presence gave us real pleasure and that was payment

enough, but he wouldn’t listen. One day he went out and just never came

back....” Her voice trailed off and she shrugged helplessly.

“Didn’t he take his banjo with him?”

“Yes, he took that. But not very far.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a little boy in the house next door. Tommy Stanton, his name

is. Mr. Armour was very fond of Tommy. They used to spend hours

together. He even taught Tommy how to play the banjo a little, and

before he left, he gave it to him.”

Peggy passed a hand across her forehead. Every trail seemed to lead to a

dead end. Tom Agate had disappeared without a trace. Peggy finally

gathered herself together and stood up. “Thank you very much,” she said.

“I guess that just about finishes any chance of finding my friend.”

“I guess so,” the woman agreed sadly. “Unless”—she got up and put her

finger against her lips—“you want ... listen,” she whispered. “There’s

Tommy playing now.”

Peggy listened carefully and heard the sound of a banjo being plucked.

It seemed to be coming from the back yard. “Maybe Tommy knows something

about him. Would you like to ask?” the woman inquired.

“I certainly would,” Peggy said, moving toward the front door.

“Here,” cried the woman, taking her by the arm. “Come around the back

way. It’s quicker.”

Moving quietly, the woman led the way through the kitchen and out the

back door into the yard. The sound of the banjo was now loud and clear.

“Tommy!” cried the woman. “Oh, Tommy! Can you come here a minute?”

The music stopped and in a moment a small tousled head appeared over a

back fence. “Hello, Tommy,” the woman said in a friendly voice. “This

nice young lady said she wanted to meet you.”

[Illustration: _A small tousled head appeared over a back fence._]

The face above the fence gave a scowl of annoyance but held its

position. Peggy walked over and smiled. “How do you do, Tommy?” she

said. “I like the way you play the banjo.”

There was no answer to this. A pair of eyes gazed at her steadily, and

Peggy could hear the sound of a foot impatiently kicking the other side

of the fence. She decided that flattery was going to get her nowhere

with Tommy, and abandoned it for a more direct approach.

“I bet I know who taught you how to play,” she said. “It was Mr. Armour,

wasn’t it?”

The scuffing stopped and Peggy thought she detected a flash of interest.

She held out the picture to the little boy. “That’s Mr. Armour, isn’t

it?”

The boy’s eyes grew round and he nodded his head briefly. “You know Mr.

Armour?” he said in a matter-of-fact voice.

“No,” Peggy admitted. “I don’t. But I want to.”

“Why?” Tommy demanded. “You want to learn how to play?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

Tommy nodded. “He can teach you. He can teach anybody.” He eyed her

moodily. “Even girls.”

“I bet he can,” Peggy said, wondering why all little boys seemed to have

such vast scorn where girls were concerned. “The only trouble is,” she

went on, “I don’t know where to find him. Do you know?”

The kicking on the other side of the fence started in again. Tommy

lowered his eyes and stared at Peggy’s feet. “It’s a secret,” he

muttered.

“What is?”

“Where Mr. Armour went.”

Peggy’s heart almost missed a beat. She tried to keep her voice calm.

“Can’t you tell me?”

The kicking increased to a thunderous volley. “Nope,” Tommy said

abruptly.

“Oh, please,” Peggy begged. “I want to see him so badly.”

Tommy’s lower lip stuck out as he considered Peggy’s request. “I want to

see him too,” he announced.

“Well, if you tell me where he is,” Peggy said, “maybe I can get him to

come back.”

The kicking stopped a second time as Tommy paused to appraise this new

idea. Then quite suddenly, he disappeared. For a moment Peggy thought he

had gone back into his house, but the next instant, a gate swung open

and Tommy marched into the yard, holding a banjo in one hand. He stopped

in front of Peggy and looked at her earnestly. “Honest?” he said. “You

really think you can get him to come see me?”

“I’ll try,” Peggy promised. “I’ll try as hard as I can.”

Indecision was stamped all over Tommy’s face, but in the end the desire

to see his old friend won out.

“He’s gone far away from here,” he said in a clear voice that left no

room for doubt.

“How far?”

“To a place where there are kings and queens and all sorts of magic

things. There’s a one-eyed giant there who looks after everybody and

sees to it that everybody is happy. Mr. Armour told me. He said he’d

always be happy ’cause he’d be with friends. It’s a place where

everybody lives in trunks.”

“In trunks!” Peggy exclaimed.

Tommy nodded solemnly. “That’s what he said. He told me I mustn’t miss

him too much on account of he was going to be very, very happy and

safe.”

“Did he say where this place was?”

Tommy shook his head. “Just that it’s far away.”

Peggy and the woman looked at each other blankly. Kings and queens who

lived in trunks with a one-eyed giant to guard them! It didn’t make

_any_ sense.

“When you find him,” Tommy was saying, “tell him I can play lots better

now, and I want him to come and hear me.”

“I will,” Peggy said automatically. “I’ll tell him.”

“Okay,” Tommy said with a satisfied nod. “I gotta go now.”

“All right.” Peggy held out her hand, but Tommy backed resolutely away

from it. He turned and ran for the gate. “G’by,” he called.

“Good-by,” Peggy said. The gate swung open and Tommy disappeared.

A one-eyed giant! Where on earth could Tom Agate be living? Peggy turned

thoughtfully back to the house.

X

Tom Agate

“Honestly, Peter, that’s what he said.”

Peter Grey lowered his cup into his saucer. “Kings and queens,” he

muttered incredulously.

“And don’t forget the one-eyed giant,” Peggy reminded him.

“Don’t worry, I’m not,” Peter assured her, “but I’d rather think about

one thing at a time.”

Peggy and Peter were sitting in a back booth of the Broadway Drugstore.

Outside, the streets were comparatively empty. Half an hour earlier they

had been jammed curb to curb with honking taxicabs threading through

thousands of hurrying people on their way to an evening at the theater,

a first-run movie, or a late dinner. But by now everyone had reached his

destination. The streets off Broadway would be quiet for another two

hours. Then, as if some unseen force had released a floodgate, the big

doors to the theaters and movie palaces would swing open, and the rush

would begin all over again.

“Do you think it was all his imagination?” Peter was asking.

Peggy shook her head. “I’m sure he didn’t make it up,” she said.

“I don’t mean the boy,” Peter said. “I mean Tom.”

“Why would he do that?”

“To cheer up the little boy. To keep him from being sad about his

leaving.”

Peggy toyed with her cup of tea. “I don’t know,” she said at last.

“Maybe it all means something. Maybe Johnny Dwyer could help us.”

“Yes, but not until tomorrow morning,” Peter pointed out. “And we don’t

have that much time left.” He drummed his fingers impatiently on the

table. “We’ve got to figure it out tonight.” He pushed his coffee cup to

one side. “Let’s start at the beginning and try to put ourselves in Tom

Agate’s position. First of all, how much do we know?”

“Well,” Peggy said thoughtfully, “we know that three months ago he ran

out of money and left the house on Tidewater Road. It seems to me that

there are four possibilities.”

“All right. Let’s have them.”

“He found a job.”

Peter shook his head. “That’s not likely. All he knew was the theater.

And if he had gotten a job in show business people would have heard

about it.”

“What about some other kind of job?”

“What could he do? He was too old to be hired for a regular position.”

“Let’s not throw out that possibility yet,” Peggy cautioned. “He might

have found something like a night watchman or a caretaker.”

“Yes,” Peter admitted, “that’s true. But why did he wait so long? Why

didn’t he do it years ago before he was completely broke?”

“I don’t know. Let’s put it aside for the moment and go on to the second

possibility. He went to some member of his family.”

“Absolutely not,” Peter declared. “He didn’t have any.”

“None at all?”

“Oh, yes, he once had a wife,” Peter said. “But it didn’t work out.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“I don’t even know _who_ she is. I don’t know whether they were divorced

or not. But they parted years ago. As a matter of fact, I once heard

that there was some bitterness there, so I doubt if he’d find a warm

reception if he went back.”

“So returning to his family is out?”

“I’m afraid so. What’s your third possibility?”

“He might have gone to a friend.”

Peter considered this carefully. “Maybe,” he said at last. “But Tom

seems to be a pretty proud old codger, the kind who wouldn’t accept

charity. Besides, Johnny Dwyer was one of his closest friends, and even

he doesn’t know where he is. What’s next?”

Peggy lowered her eyes. “I—I don’t like even to think of it,” she

murmured. “But maybe....”

“Suicide?” Peter said incredulously. “Never! I’d bet anything on that.

Tom wouldn’t go out that way. He’s got too much courage.”

“Well then, where does that leave us?”

Peter leaned back in the booth and signaled the counterman for another

order. “I’d rule out two of your possibilities,” he said slowly,

“leaving us with two alternatives. Either he’s found a job or he’s gone

to live with an old friend.” Peter reached out and made room for the two

fresh cups as they were brought to the table. The counterman collected

the empties and retreated behind the rows of soda stools.

“Which one do you think it is?” Peggy asked as she stirred her tea.

Peter shrugged helplessly. “That’s the trouble,” he said moodily. “I

can’t believe that Tom has a job. My original objection still stands.

Why didn’t he get one earlier? On the other hand, he just isn’t the type

to sponge off an old friend, no matter how close they once were.”

“But, Peter,” Peggy said with a trace of a smile, “you can’t eliminate

everything. It’s got to be something.”

“I know, I know,” Peter said impatiently. “That’s the whole trouble. And

where does it all fit in with this story of kings and queens and people

living inside trunks?” He rested his elbows on the table and cupped his

chin in his hands. “I feel like a dog that’s trying to chase his tail.

I’m going round and round, but can’t quite catch it.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Peggy said suddenly. “How about combining the two

possibilities?”

“What do you mean?”

“Suppose he _is_ living with an old friend and has a job at the same

time—like taking care of the friend’s place of business at night?”

Peter looked interested. “Say,” he said admiringly, “that sounds good.

But what kind of business?”

“Something to do with—”

“Oh, no,” Peter groaned. “Not one-eyed giants, please.”

“It’s the only thing that makes any sense,” Peggy insisted.

“But what sort of business is that?” Peter complained. “A freak show

someplace?”

Before Peggy had a chance to reply, she heard her name being called out

and looked up to see a young girl on her way to their table. Peter

turned around in his seat with ill-concealed annoyance. The girl seemed

to be bubbling over with good news and was likely to stay awhile.

“Peggy!” cried the girl. “I’m so happy for you. I just heard about your

getting the part today. When do you start on tour?”

“Not for another five weeks,” Peggy replied, sliding over. “Won’t you

sit down?”

The girl shook her head. “I can’t. I’ve had such an exhausting day. But

I saw you from the street and simply had to come in and tell you how

wonderful I think it is.” She reached out and put a hand on Peter’s

shoulder as he struggled to his feet. “No, please don’t get up.” She

smiled. “I’m on my way home.”

“At least let me introduce you two,” Peggy said. “Anna, this is Peter

Grey. Peter, Anna Warwick, a friend from drama school.”

“How do you do,” Anna said. “You’re with Mr. Stalkey’s office, aren’t

you?” Without giving Peter a chance to answer, she turned back to Peggy.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had such a day,” she confided. “You know I’m in

an off-Broadway company. We open in less than two weeks.”

“No, I didn’t know that,” Peggy said. “Congratulations. What’s the

play?”

Anna shrugged her shoulders. “Heavens, I don’t know. It’s a new play all

in verse. They keep changing the name every other day. Anyway, it’s in

costume and has a perfectly _huge_ cast. And that’s where the trouble

comes in. They’re trying to save money, so they brought us all down to

this horrid little junk shop to rummage around for costumes. I’ve been

there all day, and I’m simply dead on my feet.”

“What’s the name of the place?” Peggy asked without much interest.

“I’m sure you know it,” Anna said breezily. “You must have passed it a

hundred times. It’s just down the street here. Syd Walsh’s Theatrical

Costumes. It’s way up on the top floor of the building. I can’t tell you

how stuffy and smelly, but, my dear, they _do_ have the most fabulous

costumes. He pried open some trunks that hadn’t been looked into for

years, I suppose, and came out with—well, with exquisite materials. I

can’t think where he got them all. They must have been—”

“Syd Walsh!” Peter almost shouted the name. “On West Forty-ninth

Street?”

Anna looked at him in surprise. “Yes,” she said. “That’s the place.”

Peter threw some money down on the table and slid out of the booth.

“Come on,” he said with mounting excitement. “Come on, Peggy. Let’s go.”

Anna blinked at him and moved aside to give Peggy room. “He’s closed

now,” she said in a mystified voice.

“I know, I know,” Peter said impatiently, grabbing Peggy by the arm.

“That’s just the right time to go.” He leaned forward and shook Anna’s

hand warmly. “Thank you. Thank you very much. I can’t tell you how much

help you’ve been. Nice meeting you. G’by.”

“Yes, but”—Anna faltered, “I haven’t done a thing.”

Peter patted her on the hand. “You just don’t know.” Taking Peggy by the

arm, he rushed her down the aisle and into the revolving doors at the

drugstore entrance. As she spun out into the street, Peggy caught a last

glimpse of Anna’s face as she sat bolt upright in the deserted booth.

Her look was one of complete bafflement.

Peter guided Peggy deftly through the traffic and started up the block

with long, loping strides.

“Peter,” Peggy cried. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Syd Walsh,” Peter explained. An expression of absolute certainty

was on his face. “Syd Walsh is another old-timer like Tom Agate and

Johnny Dwyer. But instead of being a song-and-dance man, he was a

vaudeville magician. Sydney the Great, he called himself. He retired

years ago and started a theatrical costume and prop shop.”

“But what makes you think—?” Peggy asked as she ran to keep up.

“Syd Walsh,” Peter said, “was known as the tallest man in vaudeville. He

was six foot five at least. And,” Peter added significantly, “he had

only one eye. He wore a black patch for all his performances.”

“The one-eyed giant!” Peggy breathed.

“That’s it,” Peter said. “It all fits together now. The kings and

queens—Tom was talking about Syd’s costumes.”

“And the trunks, too,” Peggy cried. “Memories in trunks! Old theatrical

costumes!”

“Right,” Peter said, as they turned the corner of Forty-ninth Street.

“Tom Agate’s got a job looking after Syd Walsh’s costume shop at night.

I’m convinced of it.”

Peter pulled to a stop in the middle of the block and scanned the

darkened buildings. “It’s right around here,” he muttered. “I remember

coming here years ago.”

“There it is!” cred Peggy, pointing to a plate-glass window on the fifth

floor of a dingy brownstone building. Across the front of the glass was

lettered: Syd Walsh’s Theatrical Costumes. The light of a street lamp

barely caught the faded sign.

Peter took her by the arm. “Come on,” he said. “In we go.”

The next instant they were standing in a cramped lobby in front of the

iron grillwork of an old-fashioned elevator. Peter reached out and

pushed the button. A bell jangled down in the elevator shaft. The old

building seemed deserted.

“How about the stairs?” For some reason, Peggy was whispering. Peter

nodded wordlessly and turned into a corridor behind the elevator.

Through the gloom of a single night light, Peggy could see stairs

leading upward.

“Take a deep breath,” Peter advised over his shoulder. “It’s on the

fifth floor.”

“I’m right behind you,” Peggy assured him.

Slowly, they made their ascent. On the second floor they passed the

bolted front door of a sporting goods manufacturer. The third floor was

occupied by a firm that specialized in trimmings for ladies’ hats. The

night light on the fourth floor was out and Peggy couldn’t read the name

on the door.

“Peter,” she whispered through the darkness, “Where are you?”

There was a shuffling step in front of her and a hand reached out for

hers. “Here,” came the answering whisper. “Just one flight more.”

About halfway up the last flight, Peggy felt Peter freeze. His hand

tightened over hers. Catching her breath, Peggy tried to peer through

the inky gloom. Then she heard the sound of a banjo being played. It

seemed to come from a great distance.

Peter advanced a few more steps, made a sharp right turn, and stopped on

a landing. In front of them a thin slit of pale yellow light illuminated

the floor. They were now standing directly in front of the door that led

to Syd Walsh’s shop. From the other side Peggy heard a soft voice

singing the tune that had recently become so familiar to her.

Moving very slowly, Peter turned the handle of the door and opened it a

crack. By crowding behind him, Peggy could see the interior of the shop.

It was a jumble of old boxes, trunks, musty figures clothed in period

costumes. Masks of all descriptions leered down from the walls, and in

one cabinet there was a shadowy row of wigs. The singing was clearer now

and Peter pushed in a little farther.

In one corner of the room, half hidden by what Peggy assumed was a

worktable, stood a white-haired old man. One leg was planted easily on a

low stool, and cradled lovingly in his arms was a banjo. The words of

his song floated quietly through the absolute stillness of the shop and

Peggy suddenly realized that she was in the presence of a true artist—a

man who could take a simple instrument and a familiar folk melody and

weave a magic spell capable of moving an entire audience.

The song whispered to its husky, haunting conclusion, and the old man

stood bowed over his instrument.

Perhaps it was Peter or maybe it was some sudden movement of hers, but

the door moved forward another inch and, through the quiet, there

suddenly rang a sharp tinkle of a bell. The old man with the banjo

straightened up and whirled around to face the intruders.

Shielding his eyes with one hand, he advanced toward the door. “Who’s

there?” he challenged. “Who is it?”

XI

A Star Comes Back

Directly in front of her, Peggy felt Peter grow tense, then suddenly

relax as he shouldered his way into the shop. “Mr. Agate,” he called in

a reassuring voice. “It’s all right. We don’t mean any harm.”

Tom Agate stared at them in amazement. Peggy noticed that his eyes were

a bright china-blue that contrasted strongly with his fair complexion

and white hair. “How—” he began. “How did you manage...?”

“To find you?” Peter said. “Well, it wasn’t easy, but this is the young

lady who did the tracking down.” He reached around and brought Peggy up

into the light.

Tom Agate looked at both of them in turn and then slowly chuckled.

“Excuse my manners,” he said, sweeping some material from a bench. “But

I’m not used to visitors up here. I’d be interested to know how you

located me, Miss—”

“Peggy Lane,” Peggy said, holding out her hand. “And this is Peter

Grey.”

Tom Agate acknowledged the introductions and sat down on a three-legged

stool. “All right now,” he said. “I didn’t think anyone in the world

knew where I was. Except Syd, of course.”

“We didn’t know either,” Peggy said, “until a few minutes ago. You see,

this morning I went out to Paradise Avenue and talked to your old

landlady.”

“Oh, yes.” Tom nodded vigorously. “But how did you know about that?”

“Johnny Dwyer,” Peter said simply.

Tom Agate shook his head. “I thought he’d be one man with enough sense

to keep his mouth shut.”

“Don’t blame Johnny,” Peggy said. “He didn’t want to say a word.”

“Well, what made him?”

“Peggy convinced him,” Peter said with a smile.

Tom turned his blue eyes on Peggy and nodded slowly. “I imagine you can

be pretty persuasive if you want to be. But it’s still a long way from

Paradise Avenue to this place.”

“Don’t I know it,” Peggy said. “Your landlady told me you had moved.”

“She didn’t know where,” Tom said.

“No, she didn’t,” Peggy agreed. “But she seemed to remember something

about a place called Tidewater Road.”

Tom Agate shook his head ruefully. “That woman,” he said. “I never could

keep a thing from her. She had a nose built for prying into other

people’s business. So you went out to Tidewater, eh?”

Peggy nodded. “I didn’t know the address so I tried all the houses.”

“You were a brave girl,” Tom said with concern. “That’s not the best

part of town.”

“I didn’t run into any trouble,” Peggy assured him. “Anyway, finally I

came to this nice-looking house where the woman remembered you.”

“Yes, that would be Mrs. Mullins,” Tom said. He looked at Peggy sharply.

“But I was using a different name then.”

“I know,” Peggy replied. “Mr. Armour. That was how she knew you.”

Tom Agate looked puzzled. “But how did _you_ know that name?”

“I didn’t,” Peggy told him. “But I had a picture of you. Johnny Dwyer

gave it to me.”

“And you tracked me down with that?” Tom sounded incredulous.

“That’s all I had to go on.”

Tom Agate stared at the two young people in front of him and slowly

shook his head. “Well, you certainly have gone to a lot of trouble,” he

said at last. “I hope it’s been worth it to you, but I can’t imagine

what you want.”

“We want to talk to you, Mr. Agate,” Peter said.

Tom Agate crossed his legs and leaned back. “All right,” he said

amiably. “Go right ahead.”

Peggy reached forward and touched Peter on the arm. “Let me say it,” she

said. When Peter nodded briefly, Peggy stood up and shifted over to a

chair beside Tom. “Mr. Agate,” she said in a low, earnest voice, “we

want you back.”

Tom Agate looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “Back where?” he

asked sharply.

“In the theater.”

For a long moment Tom Agate sat perfectly still, his face

expressionless. Then he slowly got up and moved away. When he turned to

face them, Peggy saw he was smiling. “Thank you, Miss Lane,” he said

gently. “Thanks for the compliment. But I’ve learned that in this life

you can’t go back.”

“That’s not so,” Peggy declared hotly. “You can if you want to.”

The old man looked at her tolerantly. “You may be wise for your years,

my dear. But I think I know better.”

Peggy held her ground. “No,” she said. “The point is, you’ve got to

_want_ to come back. There’s got to be some reason.”

Tom Agate shrugged. “Maybe. But you see, I don’t think I want to.”

“Why not?” demanded Peggy.

Tom frowned slightly. “You ask too many questions.”

“Oh, Mr. Agate,” Peggy said, “I don’t want to pry into your personal

life. That’s what I told Johnny Dwyer this morning. I’m sure you had a

good reason to leave the stage. But don’t you think it’s time to

reconsider?”

Tom returned to his stool. “All right, Miss Lane,” he said. “It’s my

turn to do some asking. Why do you think it’s time? Why _should_ I come

back?”

Peggy accepted the challenge. “There are two reasons,” she declared.

“First of all, you’re not happy here.” She stopped him as he started to

protest. “It won’t do you any good to deny it. You’re living in a

self-imposed exile—not because you want to, but because you think you

should. As I said before, I don’t know the reasons, but I do know that

running away is no answer.”

“Running away—” said Tom.

Peggy nodded her head firmly. “That’s what I said. Let me finish before

you start.” Tom settled back and nodded. “The second reason,” Peggy went

on, “is that you’re needed.”

“Who needs me?” Tom asked in a contemptuous voice.

“I do for one,” Peggy said. “I’m just starting out in the theater, Mr.

Agate. You know so much and I know so little. When I think of the things

you could tell me—the things you could teach me!” Peggy paused and

lowered her voice. “Let me try to explain this way. Today—this

afternoon—I met a little boy. His name is Tommy Stanton. Actually, he

was the one who led me here.”

The old man started. “Tommy!” he cried delightedly. “How is he?”

“He’s lonely,” Peggy said. “He misses you. You taught him how to play

the banjo and he loved you for it. He’s been practicing every day, Mr.

Agate, and he’s much better than he was before. He told me to tell you

that.”

“Tommy said that?”

“Yes. And he said another thing. He said that he wanted you to come back

because he wanted to play for you. He’s proud of what he’s learned, but

he needs more help. Your help.” Peggy reached out and took one of Tom

Agate’s hands in hers. “In a way, we’re like Tommy Stanton. We need you

and we want you.”

The old man sat silently, making no effort to remove his hand. “I can’t

come back with the same old routines,” he said. “People are tired of

them. They’ve heard them all a thousand times. There’s no point in

returning with the old familiar bag of tricks.”

“But you don’t have to,” Peggy cried. “There are all sorts of new things

for you to do.”

“What, for instance?”

“A play. You’ve never acted in a straight play before. Think of it! Tom

Agate in a play!”

Tom smiled wanly. “You’re very good to say all this, but I haven’t

noticed anybody beating down the doors to ask me.”

“That’s because no one has had the imagination before. But Peter has.”

“Peter?”

“Yes, Peter Grey here. He works in Oscar Stalkey’s office.”

A light seemed to flicker in the old man’s eyes.

“Oscar Stalkey,” he said with a smile. “How is the old boy? Still as

enthusiastic as ever?”

“Just the same, Mr. Agate,” Peter answered. “And he’s got a play for

you.”

Tom sat up. “Did _he_ say that?”

Peggy nodded. “Peter suggested you, and Mr. Stalkey was wild over the

idea.”

“What’s the play?”

“_Innocent Laughter._”

“_Innocent Laughter!_” Tom Agate looked at Peggy and Peter in amazement.

“But that’s a hit! I understand it’s the biggest thing this season.”

“It is,” Peggy said. “Oscar Stalkey’s forming a road company of it. I’m

to be general understudy and Peter is company manager.”

“But what sort of a part could I play?”

“Let me tell you about _Innocent Laughter_,” Peggy said, settling

herself in her chair. Tom Agate nodded agreement and for the next few

minutes, Peggy outlined the plot and the possibilities in the play.

“... so you see,” she finished at last, “the part of the grandfather is

simply made to order for you.”

“Who’s playing it now?” Tom asked. Peggy saw he was beginning to become

interested.

“Hiram Baker,” Peter said.

Tom Agate made a disgusted face. “But he’s no actor! I remember Hiram as

a youngster!”

Peter laughed. “Then prove you can do better.”

“That wouldn’t be hard,” Tom said with a chuckle. He turned to Peggy

with a smile of delight. “And you’re the understudy, eh?” Peggy nodded.

“Well, well.” He smiled. “Your first real break?”

“With a professional company—yes.”

“I’d like to hear you read sometime.”

Peggy jumped to her feet and began rummaging through her handbag. “Why

not right now!” she cried. “We can do the scene between the young girl

and her grandfather.”

“We?” Tom exclaimed.

“Well, I can’t do the scene all by myself, can I?” said Peggy, with a

quick look at Peter. “Somebody’s got to read the other lines.”

Tom laughed. “All right,” he said. “I’ll humor you. Give me the script.”

“Here,” Peter said, stepping forward. “I’ve got an extra copy. You keep

yours, Peggy.” Peter paced over to one side of the room. “Let me explain

what the set looks like. We’ll pretend that this is a door. And you’re

sitting over there by the fire....”

In a few quick words Peter sketched in the scene for Tom Agate. The old

man followed every word, nodding intermittently.

“I see,” he said at last. “Let’s try it.” He looked over at Peggy. “Are

you all set?”

Peggy nodded and said, “Start reading your lines when you hear me sigh.”

She found her place in the script and took a deep breath. The tiny

darkened shop with its strange shapes and musty odor was very quiet and,

in an odd way, relaxing. With street noises mute and far away, the room

seemed somehow warm and cozy, and Peggy approached the scene ahead with

anticipation and confidence. Quietly, she made her way through the

imaginary door, walked over to the imaginary window, and looked out. She

sighed softly.

From the other side of the room, she could hear Tom Agate turn slowly in

his chair. “‘Why did you come in so quietly?’” he read. His voice was

rich and warm. “‘You’re as furtive as a lady burglar tonight.’” Here Tom

added a note of gentle humor. “‘What’s wrong?’” The last phrase was said

perfectly, with just the right amount of concern, but not too

inquisitive.

“‘Oh,’” Peggy heard herself saying, “‘I didn’t know anybody was here.’”

That was the way! That was the way she had wanted to say it at the

audition!

“‘I’ll go if you like.’”

Suddenly the play had real meaning for Peggy. It became important for

her “grandfather” to stay. “‘Oh no!’” she cried in a voice of alarm.

Then more quietly. “‘Please don’t. There’s—there’s something I want to

talk to you about.’”

The scene continued and this time there was no one to stop them. The end

came when Peggy, as the young granddaughter, threw herself down on the

floor beside her grandfather and began to cry. To her surprise, real

tears came to her eyes.

“‘I’m sorry,’” she gulped. “‘I didn’t mean to cry.’”

Above her, Tom Agate, still in the role of the grandfather, reached down

and touched her hair. “‘There, there,’” he read. “‘A person should

always have somebody to cry with. It does the heart good. I may not be

that perfect person, but maybe I’ll do for tonight.’” Tom Agate put his

hand gently on her shoulder. “‘There, there,’” he repeated.

And that was the end of the scene.

In the breathless hush that followed, Peggy couldn’t trust herself to

speak. Even Peter, who never seemed at a loss for words, was silent. But

eventually, he put into words what they all knew.

“That was beautiful,” he said in an oddly choked voice. “Simply

beautiful. It’s the way the scene was meant to be played all the time.”

He reached down, helped Peggy to her feet, and shook Tom Agate’s hand.

“Sir,” he said earnestly, “you were magnificent.”

Tom Agate passed a hand over his face. His eyes were lighted with a shy

smile of delight. “Nothing to it,” he said. “After all, look at the help

I had.” He cocked a quizzical glance at Peter. “Do you mean to say that

this girl here”—he waved a hand at Peggy—“isn’t playing the part of the

daughter?”

“I’m afraid not,” Peter admitted. “Just the understudy.”

Tom shook his head. “What a waste!”

“It certainly is,” Peter replied. “But Oscar Stalkey thinks she needs

some more experience. And the right people to work with,” he added

significantly.

“Has he heard her read?”

“He hired her,” Peter pointed out. “He must think she’s pretty fair.”

Peggy felt it was time to interrupt. “Look here, you two,” she broke in.

“If you’re quite finished talking about me as if I weren’t here, maybe

we can get back to business.”

The two men looked at her. “What business?” Tom demanded.

“Will you try out for the part of the grandfather?”

Tom Agate smiled and walked to one corner of the room. “It’s a marvelous

part,” he said indecisively.

“And you’re marvelous in it,” Peggy insisted. “Say you’ll do it.”

Tom looked at Peter seriously. “Did Oscar say he wanted me?”

“Yes, he did,” Peter assured him.

Tom moved back across the room, walking with the easy step of someone

half his years. Peggy saw that his face was flushed and his eyes were

sparkling with an inner excitement she could only guess at.

He stopped abruptly and held out his hands to them. “All right,” he said

with unexpected forcefulness. “I’ll give it a try.”

Peggy ran over to him. “You promise?” she said. “You won’t change your

mind?”

Tom shook his head firmly. “No, Peggy. When I give my word, you can bank

on it.”

Peggy whirled and grabbed Peter by the arm. “Oh, Peter!” she cried.

“Isn’t it wonderful!” The three of them stood grinning foolishly at one

another like three mischievous children who have just invented an

especially wonderful game.

Tom Agate was the first to break away. “Well, now,” he said, picking up

the script, “might as well get to work. I’ll want to read this before

morning. When does Stalkey expect us?”

“Auditions are scheduled for ten o’clock at the Elgin Theater.”

Tom nodded with satisfaction. “Good. I’ll be there.” He looked at Peggy

anxiously. “You’ll read the part with me, won’t you? Just like tonight?”

Peggy appealed to Peter. “What do you think?” she asked.

“No problem there,” he assured them.

“Good.” Tom flipped open the script and ran his thumb down the edges of

the paper. “Incidentally,” he said, “who else is in it?”

“Emily Burckhardt is playing the grandmother,” Peter told him.

Tom beamed with pleasure. “That’s nice,” he said. “I haven’t seen Emily

for years. What about the daughter?”

“Marcy Hubbard.”

Tom shook his head. “Don’t know her.”

“She’s a newcomer. I’m afraid we’re going to lose her to Hollywood.”

“All the better,” Tom cried gaily. “Then Peggy can play the part. How

about the mother? I see she’s got a big part.”

“It _is_ a big part,” Peter admitted. “We’re centering the play around

her.”

Tom frowned. “Is that a good idea? Just from the little I’ve read, I

would have thought that the play belonged to the old woman.”

“Well, we’ve got a big name, you see,” Peter explained.

Tom nodded understandingly. “Who is it?”

“Katherine Nelson.”

The transformation in Tom came without warning. All color left him and

his face suddenly became drawn and old. “Who did you say?” he whispered

in a small, shocked voice.

“Katherine Nelson,” Peter repeated. “Why?”

It seemed an effort for Tom to breathe. The script fell from his hand as

he slowly rose to his feet. He shook his head like a drunken man. “No,”

he murmured thickly. “I—I can’t.”

Peggy stepped forward. “Can’t what?” she asked in a concerned voice.

“Are you all right?”

Tom waved her away. “I can’t be in the play,” he intoned dully. “I won’t

be there tomorrow.”

Peggy looked at him incredulously. “But you promised!” she said

accusingly.

“I don’t care,” Tom said. “Please—go away now.”

Peggy reached out and took him by the shoulder. “No,” she said urgently.

“You can’t do this. I don’t know what’s upset you, but you’ve just _got_

to be there tomorrow morning. Try and face it, whatever it is.” She gave

him a gentle shake. “For your sake as well as ours.”

The old man looked at her sadly. “My dear,” he said wistfully, “you

don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I know I don’t,” Peggy said. “But we’re depending on you.”

Tom Agate seemed to stand a little straighter even though the hurt look

still lingered in his eyes. He gazed at Peggy steadfastly and sighed.

“You remind me of someone,” he said at last. “Someone—I knew a long time

ago. Will you be there tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Peggy said quietly.

“Do you promise?”

Peggy nodded. “I promise.”

Torn seemed satisfied. “All right then,” he said. “I’ll be there. But,

please, don’t let me down.”

Peggy took her hand away. “I won’t,” she said gently. “You can trust

me.”

XII

Tom’s Tryout

The theater the next morning seemed full of old men, all of them there

to try out for the part of the grandfather. Peggy arrived shortly before

ten o’clock, and after scanning the rows of seats for Tom Agate, sank

down in an aisle seat toward the back. Promptly at ten, Craig Claiborne

began the auditions. The same bored assistant stage manager who had read

with Peggy two days earlier took his place behind the plain table on

stage and began to read with each candidate. Fortunately, it was the

same scene Peggy had read with Tom the night before.

One after another, the old men trudged up to the stage and went through

the lines that had now become so familiar to Peggy. Some were better

than others, but all lacked the authority, the fire the part demanded.

At ten-thirty, just as Peggy was beginning to grow anxious, a tall

figure dropped into the empty seat beside her. “Has he come yet?” It was

Peter Grey and he seemed equally worried.

“No,” Peggy whispered. “Will they wait for him?”

Peter shook his head briefly. “I haven’t even told Mr. Stalkey he’s

coming. I was afraid he wouldn’t show up.”

“How much longer do we have?”

“If he’s not here in the next half hour, we’ll have to give it up.”

Peggy was suddenly struck by an idea. “Peter!” she said. “Did you give

his name to the doorman? They won’t let him in if he’s not on the list.”

Peter grinned down at her. “Don’t worry,” he said. “All taken care of.”

Peggy sat back and tried to concentrate on the auditions. When she saw

that the last of the actors was approaching the stage, she turned

uneasily in her seat to look toward the rear of the theater. That was

when she saw Tom standing quietly behind the curtains that separated the

inner lobby from the orchestra. Without taking her eyes off Tom, she

reached out and touched Peter on the sleeve of his jacket.

“Look,” she said in a triumphant whisper. “Look behind you, Peter. He’s

come.”

Peter swiveled in his seat, saw Tom, and leaped to his feet. “You talk

to him,” he ordered, “While I go tell Mr. Stalkey.”

Peggy slid out into the aisle and walked slowly back to Tom Agate. He

saw her coming and nodded a shy greeting. “Hello,” he said quietly.

Peggy held out her hand. “I’m glad you came.”

Tom nodded briefly. “I almost didn’t make it,” he said with a nervous

laugh. “If it hadn’t been for that promise....” He trailed off and shook

his head.

“Well, you’re here now,” Peggy said, slipping her arm through his. “Come

on and sit down. I think they’re almost ready for us.” She could feel

Tom shiver as they walked down the aisle.

“How were the auditions?” he asked, almost hopefully, it seemed to

Peggy. “Did Oscar find anyone?”

“Mr. Stalkey doesn’t take me into his confidence,” Peggy replied with a

smile, “but I don’t think so.”

Tom didn’t say a word, but hunched into a seat beside Peggy. In his lap

he held a copy of the script of _Innocent Laughter_. Down in front Peggy

saw Peter Grey leaning over Oscar Stalkey and Craig Claiborne. The three

of them seemed deep in conversation. Suddenly Oscar Stalkey gave a

little jerk of his head and came up the aisle with the quick steps Peggy

remembered so well from her interview in his office. Tom Agate

straightened in his seat, uncertain of what to do.

Oscar Stalkey settled the problem by gripping the old man’s hand warmly.

“Hello, Tom,” he said, and Peggy heard genuine affection and respect in

his tone. “How have you been keeping yourself?”

Tom struggled to his feet, a flush of pleasure creeping over his face.

“Fine, Oscar,” he answered. “Just fine. Congratulations on a fine play.”

“Thanks,” Oscar Stalkey said. “What about the part of the grandfather?

Think you’d like to play it?”

“Don’t know if I can, Oscar.”

The producer laughed. “That’s not what I heard. Peter Grey said you were

great.”

“It’s nice of him to say so,” Tom murmured.

“How about going over a scene or two for us now?” Oscar Stalkey took him

by the arm and led him toward the stage. “But first I’d like you to meet

Craig Claiborne, our director.”

Tom seemed reluctant to follow Oscar Stalkey. “There’s one favor....” he

said tentatively.

“Anything at all,” the producer declared expansively. “You name it.”

“I’d like to read the scene with Miss Lane.”

Oscar Stalkey shot a quick glance at Peggy and turned back to Tom. “Sure

thing, Tom,” he said, putting his hand on the old actor’s shoulder.

“When do you want to start?”

Tom smiled. “Might as well get it over with,” he declared. “Peggy?” he

said questioningly. “Are you ready?”

Peggy nodded and stood up. The three of them walked slowly down to the

edge of the stage where Oscar Stalkey made hurried introductions. A few

moments later, Peggy found herself back behind the door waiting for

Craig Claiborne’s cue. Two days ago she had been so frightened that she

could hardly move. But now all that had vanished. It was a calm and

confident Peggy who pushed open the door when Craig Claiborne gave the

word.

Peggy moved effortlessly through the lines, feeling every pause and

groping for exactly the right intonation on every phrase, every word.

The big theater was hushed as the white-haired veteran and the newcomer

built slowly but surely to the moving climax. But Peggy didn’t notice

any of that. Except for the small circle of light that was the playing

area, the world ceased to exist, She didn’t even stop to think that she

was playing a scene from Broadway’s biggest hit play on the stage of one

of New York’s most famous theaters. For the past few years she had

dreamed of doing this, but now that the day had arrived, she was so

caught up in the powerful emotions of acting that it never once occurred

to her that her dreams had suddenly turned into reality.

The scene slowly drew to a close as Peggy knelt beside Tom. Just as on

the night before, she could feel his hand gently stroking her hair. The

two of them held their positions for maybe half a minute and then Peggy

scrambled to her feet, wondering how things had gone. The first hint

came when she glanced over at the wings to see three or four stagehands

grouped silently beyond the ropes that operated the front curtain. Mr.

Fox, the assistant stage manager, was still sitting behind his table,

looking like a man hypnotized. No one moved.

Then from the seats out front Peggy heard someone blow his nose. The

next instant Mr. Stalkey came leaping up the steps, his eyes

suspiciously bright.

“Tom,” he said, coming directly to the point, “will you take the part?”

Tom blinked and stood up. “Are you really sure?” he asked. “Sure you

want me?”

Mr. Stalkey opened his eyes. “Want you!” he exclaimed. “Let me tell you

something. I must have seen this play a hundred times, but this morning

for the first time you’ve shown me how this scene should be played.

Let’s go up to the office and talk business.” He threw an arm around the

old man’s shoulder and started to walk him off stage.

Watching Tom Agate’s face was an experience Peggy never forgot. When she

had first seen him the night before he was a lost soul without the will

or the ability to venture far from the airless confines of Syd Walsh’s

shop. But now he looked alive and alert, like a man who had rediscovered

himself and was proud of it.

Then, suddenly, Peggy saw his body tremble and sway. For a moment she

thought he had been taken ill and made a move forward to help him. It

was then that she saw what the trouble was.

Standing in the doorway leading to the backstage area, her hands

clenched tightly together, was Katherine Nelson.

Stamped across her face was a look of such unutterable shock, mingled

with pain and fear, that for a brief moment Peggy felt sorry for her.

Then slowly the color crept back into her cheeks and she took a step

forward.

Oscar Stalkey, who seemed blissfully unaware of what was happening,

welcomed her eagerly. “You’ve just missed the greatest audition of all

time,” he said jovially. “But don’t worry, it’s a performance you’ll see

a lot of over the next few months. Katherine, I’d like you to meet Tom

Agate.”

Katherine Nelson ignored Tom completely. “What do you mean?” she said in

a voice that she was obviously controlling at great effort. “What kind

of audition?”

“Why, Tom Agate has just read for the grandfather in _Innocent

Laughter_,” explained Stalkey. “And, I might add, has got the part.”

Katherine Nelson stepped back as though she had been struck in the face.

“By the way,” he continued blandly, “do you two know each other?”

“Know each other!” Katherine Nelson breathed. She turned on Stalkey in

sudden fury. “What are you trying to do to me?” she grated. “Ruin my

career? Make a laughingstock of me?”

Oscar Stalkey looked bewildered. “Why, my dear,” he temporized, “I don’t

know what you’re talking about. And I don’t think you do either!”

“A vaudeville song-and-dance man!” Katherine Nelson said and her voice

was heavy with scorn. “A broken-down old has-been who probably can’t

even remember his lines! This is what you want to put into one of my

plays? Never!” She advanced toward Oscar Stalkey, her eyes flashing.

“Either he goes or I go! I will not play in the same company with that

man!”

Oscar Stalkey held his ground firmly, but Tom Agate cringed away. “Look,

Oscar,” he said dully, “she’s probably right. Let’s just forget about

the whole—”

“Be quiet, both of you!” the producer thundered. Peggy noticed that his

face was as flushed as Katherine Nelson’s. “Now you listen to me,

Katherine. I’m still the producer of _Innocent Laughter_ and _I_ make

the decisions about who goes into the cast and who doesn’t. Tom Agate is

perfect for the part of the grandfather. Furthermore, he’s got a name

that still has drawing power. Maybe it’s not as big a name as yours, but

it’ll do, and I’m willing to gamble on him. As for you, you’ve got a

contract. Now, if you want to break it, I’ll give you permission to go

right ahead. You can come up to the office right now and we can tear it

up together. But if you do”—Oscar Stalkey lowered his voice in

warning—“you’ll never be in another one of my shows. You know perfectly

well what _Innocent Laughter_ can do for you. You’ll have a success

again—for the first time in quite a while. And believe me, Katherine,

you _need_ a success.”

For a long moment Katherine Nelson was speechless. Finally, in a voice

that was noticeably shaking, she asked, “Is that your final word?”

“It is,” Stalkey replied firmly.

The actress swayed, caught herself, then turned to Tom Agate. “All

right,” she said in a low voice, keeping her eyes on Tom. “I’ll agree to

what you want. But only on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

Katherine Nelson spoke slowly but with withering effect. “That I have

nothing to do with Tom Agate—except during rehearsals and performance.

That I won’t speak to him—look at him—or touch him. Is that understood?”

Oscar Stalkey frowned, started to say something, then changed his mind.

“Suit yourself,” he said at last. “Of course, I don’t know how Tom

feels—”

Tom, who had lowered his eyes under Katherine Nelson’s scathing attack,

straightened visibly. His face was grave and serious, but he was no

longer cowering. He seemed to have come to some sort of inner decision.

He returned Katherine Nelson’s contemptuous stare squarely.

“Very well, Katherine,” he said firmly. “You can live like that if you

like. I won’t stop you. But listen to me. Whatever you do, don’t cut

yourself off. I’ve been through it. I know what it’s like.” He lowered

his voice to a gentle whisper. “Besides, it doesn’t help.”

Katherine Nelson turned without a word and walked slowly away. Her face

was a wooden mask that hid—what? Peggy wondered.

XIII

The Ordeal

Katherine Nelson was as good as her word. In the hectic days that

followed, she never spoke to Tom Agate unless it was absolutely

necessary. Her manner was cold, aloof, and imperious. She listened to

Craig Claiborne whenever he directed her, but seldom followed his

advice. With the older members of the cast she was icily polite, a pose

that was frequently shattered by violent outbursts of temper. As for

Peggy, Katherine Nelson studiously ignored her. Peter Grey explained it

by saying that the actress had discovered it was Peggy who was largely

responsible for Tom’s presence in the cast.

Actually, Peggy didn’t see much of Peter. Both he and Pam were too busy

with the thousands of chores that go with sending a theatrical company

on the road. The only other person in the company, aside from Pam, who

was close to Peggy’s age was Marcy Hubbard, the girl playing the part of

the young daughter. Marcy was a breath-takingly beautiful girl with a

clever sense of timing and a pleasant, friendly, off stage manner, but

Peggy never got to know her well. Marcy, very much in love and recently

engaged, spent every available spare moment with her fiancé, a quiet

young man who picked her up at the theater immediately after rehearsals.

This left only Amy, May Berriman, and Randy Brewster to talk to. Not

that they weren’t eager listeners. But because they never had a chance

to see any of the rehearsals, Peggy was forced to go into great detail

in order to answer their many questions.

“You mean to say that she _never_ speaks to him?” Amy asked one evening,

during the second week of rehearsals. They were sitting in May

Berriman’s private sitting room on the ground floor of the Gramercy

Arms. Amy, Peggy, and Randy had all been to dinner together, and when

they came back May had seen them and invited them in for coffee.

“She hardly ever speaks to anyone,” Peggy said. “I’ve never seen

anything like it.”

“Goodness,” Amy said wonderingly. “That must put a strain on things.”

“You don’t know,” Peggy answered. “It’s as if we were rehearsing a play

about the end of the world or something—not a romantic comedy that

should be full of laughs.”

“How do you get along with her?”

“Me? Like everybody else. I’ve got one tiny scene in the first act. I

come in with Marcy, who’s supposed to introduce me to her mother—that’s

Katherine Nelson. We say a few words to each other and then I go out

again.”

“How does that go?” Randy asked, balancing his cup and saucer in one

hand. “If I remember rightly you have one or two nice lines.”

“I did have, you mean,” Peggy said moodily. “Katherine Nelson insisted

on cutting them.”

May Berriman arched her eyebrows. “How did she manage that?”

“She said I wasn’t doing them right.”

“Were you?”

Peggy looked at them helplessly. “No,” she said, “I guess I wasn’t. But

I don’t think anybody could,” she added stoutly. “You see, when I come

on to meet the mother, Katherine Nelson doesn’t even look at me.”

“Where _does_ she look?” Amy demanded.

Peggy touched her right ear. “She keeps staring at a spot just about

here. Her face never changes expression, and her eyes look positively

glassy. Now, how can you react to someone like that?”

“It sounds as though she were some sort of mechanical doll,” Randy said.

“That’s exactly it!” Peggy cried. “We’re all mechanical people. We go

through the right motions and say the right words, but it’s all so

stiff—without any life or warmth.”

“Even Tom Agate?” May asked.

Peggy’s face softened. “No,” she said quietly. “He’s wonderful. I don’t

know how he does it. He’s the only one with any spark to his

performance. It’s a joy to see him come out on stage.” She shook her

head wonderingly. “I think that man could act with a stone statue.”

In Oscar Stalkey’s office, two men were pacing back and forth

restlessly. One of them was Stalkey himself, but then he always paced.

The other was Craig Claiborne, who was usually relaxed and easygoing.

The director threw out an impatient hand. “It just won’t work, Oscar!”

he said. “I’ve tried everything, but that woman stiffens them all up

like blocks of ice. She won’t do a thing I tell her, and as a result,

this so-called comedy we’re about to take out on the road sounds like a

dramatized version of an obituary column.”

“Now, now,” Oscar Stalkey soothed. “It can’t be as bad as all that.” But

his face looked drawn, worried.

“Come on, Oscar,” Claiborne said. “You know it is.”

Oscar Stalkey sighed heavily. “Maybe it’ll get better,” he said

hopefully. “You know, with opening night and all, there’s bound to be

some excitement.”

The director shook his head with stark finality. “Opening night is just

around the corner,” he said, “and they’re getting worse. Every last one

of them. Except,” he added hastily, “Tom Agate. What a remarkable old

man!”

“Three weeks in Baltimore!” Peter looked up from the pile of papers on

his desk and laughed bitterly. “We’ll be lucky to last three nights!”

At the other end of the office Pam Mundy’s fingers kept up a steady

tattoo over the keys of her typewriter. She didn’t bother to answer. She

knew he was right.

Oscar Stalkey didn’t quite know how to begin. He prowled uncertainly

along the bookcases lining one side of his office, trying to keep his

temper in check and his voice low. Sitting in the most comfortable chair

in the room, Katherine Nelson watched him steadily and waited for him to

speak.

At last he asked the question that had been preying on his mind for the

past two weeks. “Why?” he said simply. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” Katherine Nelson inquired innocently.

Stalkey gave an exasperated shake of his head. “You know perfectly well.

The play’s going to pieces.”

She crossed her legs and returned his pleading stare with a bland smile.

“Are you suggesting it’s my fault?” she asked.

“Of course I am!” the producer exploded. “Whose fault d’you think it

is?”

“Now that’s very interesting,” the actress said coolly. “Supposing we go

over my so-called shortcomings. First of all, have I ever missed a

rehearsal—or even been late for one?”

“No,” Stalkey admitted uncomfortably. “But—”

“Let me finish,” Katherine Nelson insisted. “There’s been no trouble

with my lines. I know them perfectly. Now, I admit I’ve had some

disagreements with Craig Claiborne. He’s wanted me to do some things I

don’t like.”

“And so you didn’t,” Stalkey concluded gloomily.

“No, I didn’t,” Katherine Nelson said cheerfully. “But why should I

follow his orders like a robot? After all, I’ve had thirty years of

experience in the theater. I’m an established star. Surely I’ve got some

right to express myself in my own way. Be reasonable, Oscar.”

“Well, what about the other people in the cast? You treat them like

dirt.”

Katherine Nelson looked shocked. “I do not,” she declared. “I haven’t

said a word to them.”

“That’s the whole trouble. You completely ignore them.”

The actress looked pained. She leaned forward in her chair and spoke

intensely. “I’m a professional, Oscar. The theater is my business. I

don’t go to rehearsals to socialize or have a good time. I’m there to

work. And I expect others to do the same.”

Oscar Stalkey threw up his hands. “Have it your own way, Katherine, but

something’s all wrong. I know it and so do you. You’re not the only

professional in the cast. Emily Burckhardt’s been in the theater as long

as you have and she’s upset.”

“Poor Emily,” Katherine Nelson said sweetly. “Her trouble is that she’s

got to play so many scenes with that horrible man.”

Stalkey glanced at her shrewdly. “Tom Agate?”

Katherine Nelson didn’t answer. She smiled instead.

“... Oh, it all _sounds_ reasonable enough,” Stalkey said later that

day. He and Craig Claiborne were having a conference after rehearsal.

“She claims she has her own way of working, and that she’s building up

to a performance. She’s terribly, terribly sorry that the others are

having such a hard time, but it’s not her fault.” The producer’s voice

was heavy with sarcasm.

Craig Claiborne was more direct. He only said one word.

“Nuts.”

“I’ve seen it happen before,” May said thoughtfully. They were entering

the third week of rehearsals, and Peggy had made it a habit to report to

May every night. The older woman’s advice was usually sympathetic and

helpful. “I can see her little game just as clearly as if it were

written on the wall.”

“But what is it?” Peggy asked. “I’ve never known anything like this

before. Honestly, it’s gotten so I _hate_ to go to rehearsals in the

morning. The atmosphere in that theater is simply loaded with

bitterness. Everybody’s on edge.”

“Except Katherine Nelson. I bet she’s all sweetness and light.”

Peggy looked at her in astonishment. “How did you know that?”

May smiled. “I told you. I know what she’s up to. Look, Peggy, she wants

to get rid of Tom Agate, and she doesn’t care whom she hurts in the

process. She’s deliberately throwing everybody off balance by giving a

technically perfect but cold performance. You just wait until opening

night, though. Because of the way she’s been acting, everyone in the

cast will have a terrible case of first-night jitters. But not our girl.

Not Katherine Nelson. That night, she’ll open up and play the part with

everything she’s got. The result?” May smiled bitterly. “She’ll be the

heroine of the hour. Then she can go up to Oscar Stalkey and say, ‘See,

I told you so. I was fine. It’s the others that are bad.’ And he’ll have

to listen to her because she’ll be speaking from a position of

strength.”

“But what good will that do?” Peggy asked.

“She’ll put on pressure to fire Tom Agate. And Oscar Stalkey will have

to do it, too. Reluctantly, he’ll ask for Tom’s resignation.”

“But Tom’s so good,” Peggy protested. “He’s the only one in the cast who

isn’t being affected by her.”

May shook her doubtfully. “He’s only human,” she said. “I’m afraid the

strain is going to show.”

May was right. Tom began to fall to pieces during the next rehearsal.

Where he had once been alive and vital, he now read his lines unevenly,

in a lackluster mumble. In the second act, he completely forgot one of

his lines, and in the third act he forgot to come in on his entrance.

That was when Craig Claiborne lost his temper and bawled him out in

front of the other members of the cast. During the tirade, Peggy stole a

glance at Katherine Nelson. The actress was standing perfectly still, an

unholy gleam in her eyes.

XIV

The Secret

Craig Claiborne was slumped deep in the easy chair in Oscar Stalkey’s

office. A look of troubled guilt was stamped across his face. “I

apologized later,” he was saying to the producer, who for once was not

pacing. He was sitting across from his director, chewing nervously on

the stump of a cold cigar, looking haggard and careworn.

“What did he say?” Stalkey asked.

“He mumbled something about its all being his fault and shuffled out.”

“Where did he go?”

“How the devil should I know? I’m not his nurse.” Claiborne passed a

weary hand over his forehead. “I’m sorry, Oscar. I didn’t mean to snap

at you. But this thing’s got us all to the breaking point.” He paused

and looked at the producer steadily. “Have you thought of asking for

Katherine Nelson’s resignation?”

Stalkey removed the cigar from his mouth. “On what grounds?” he shot

back. “Yes, I’ve hinted at it,” he added morosely. “But she laughed at

me. She said she’d never resign.”

“Did you threaten to fire her?”

“I didn’t have to. She told me that if I tried to get rid of her she’d

raise such a fuss the show would never open.”

“But that’s all bluff.”

Stalkey sighed. “Maybe. But she threatened to sue me and drag the whole

thing into court.”

“But—I don’t understand her attitude.”

“Neither do I!” Stalkey said. “I don’t know what she hopes to

accomplish. It won’t do her any good to have the play flop.” The

producer changed the subject abruptly. “What about Tom? Do you think

he’ll be back?”

Claiborne shook his head. “We’ll see.”

It was nearly a quarter of three and Tom Agate still hadn’t appeared.

Their nerves frayed and their tempers short, the rest of the cast went

through some scenes where Tom wasn’t needed. Finally, just a few minutes

before the hour, the back doors of the theater opened and Tom came

striding purposefully down the aisle. On stage, the cast members greeted

his arrival with smiles of relief. All except Katherine Nelson. She drew

in her breath sharply, marched over to a chair, and sat down

forbiddingly.

“Sorry I’m late,” Tom apologized. “But the train broke down.”

“That’s no excuse,” came a cold, hard voice. “You’ve kept us waiting for

nearly an hour. If you don’t have more of a sense of responsibility than

that, you should get out!”

In the silence that followed, Tom went up to Katherine Nelson and looked

down at her. An expression of sorrow, mingled with pity, crossed his

face. “It won’t work, Katherine,” he said softly. “I’m in this to the

finish.” He turned away abruptly and signaled Craig Claiborne. “I’m

ready whenever you are.”

“All right,” Craig announced. “We’ll do the scene between the

grandfather and the daughter. Marcy! Let’s go!”

Peggy, who had come to look upon this scene almost as her private

property, stood in the wings and watched it unfold. She had seen it so

many times before, knew every line of dialogue and every movement, but

she still loved it.

As soon as Tom came on stage, it was evident that he had regained the

confidence that he had lost yesterday. His rich, deep voice colored the

empty theater, making it glow with warmth and life. Peggy smiled to

herself and settled down to watch. It soon became clear that this was

the finest performance Tom had given yet. It was almost as if he wanted

to make up for the day before. Everyone in the theater stood engrossed

as the two actors went through their scene.

Halfway through the scene, Peggy suddenly realized she wasn’t alone.

Standing a few feet away from her, half hidden by the backstage gloom,

was Katherine Nelson. Her eyes never left Tom Agate, and as Peggy

watched, the older actress’s face softened in an infinitely sad and

tender half-smile. Peggy had never seen her look like that before. She

was almost in tears. Then, abruptly, Katherine Nelson turned and moved

quickly out of sight to her dressing room. Peggy thought she heard a

stifled sob.

The young girl stared after her with a puzzled frown. “Now what,” she

murmured to herself, “do you suppose that means?”

“I went to see Tommy today,” Tom was saying to Peggy later that

afternoon. They were standing in the little alley behind the theater,

taking a quick breath of fresh air before going back to rehearsal.

“Tommy?” Peggy asked, trying to place the name.

“You remember,” Tom said. “Tommy Stanton. Out on Tidewater Road. You

were the one who told me that he wanted to see me again.”

Peggy brightened. “Oh, Tommy! Of course. Was he glad you came?”

Tom Agate smiled, obviously pleased by what had happened. “Yes, I think

he was. He played me some of our old songs on the banjo, and I gave him

another lesson.”

“He must have been surprised.”

“That’s a funny thing. He wasn’t. He was certain I’d be out soon,

because you had promised it. He said he never gave up knowing that I’d

be back.” Tom shook his head in wonder. “That little boy taught me an

important lesson. You know, I was ready to give up yesterday. I wanted

to quit the company.” When Peggy didn’t say anything, Tom went on. “Yes,

I thought there wasn’t any use in going on. What was the point? But

Tommy gave me back the faith I’d lost. I don’t know where he gets so

much courage. He doesn’t have a very happy life.”

“I didn’t know that,” Peggy said. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s alone so much of the time,” Tom explained. “The family’s terribly

poor, and both his mother and father go out to work all day. They don’t

want him out on the street and there isn’t much to do alone in the

house. That’s why he loves the banjo so much. It gives him an interest.”

Tom laughed. “You know, he wanted to come away with me. He said he was

going to visit me sometime and see all the kings and queens. He was

especially eager to meet the one-eyed giant.”

“I’m sure he was.” Peggy laughed. “What did you say?”

“I told him it was a long way off and not to try. But he said he didn’t

care. He knew where it was.”

“I wonder what he meant by that?”

“I don’t know. When we said good-by, he told me not to be lonely.

Imagine! Him telling that to me. He said he’d see me soon—after he

learned the new song I’d taught him.”

The two of them stood quietly in the dingy alleyway, wrapped in their

private thoughts. Peggy drew her coat up around her neck. Fall had

turned to winter, and there was just a hint of snow in the air.

Emily Burckhardt resigned the next afternoon. Surprisingly, Oscar

Stalkey accepted her decision without protest. “I can’t blame you,

Emily,” he told her.

“That woman is just impossible,” Emily said. She stated it as a fact,

simply and without rancor. “If you don’t get her out of the play, you

might as well not bother sending it out on tour.”

Oscar Stalkey nodded. “I know. But I’m going to give her another two

days. Things might work themselves out by that time.”

Emily Burckhardt looked doubtful but kept silent. “Have you any thoughts

about my replacement?” she asked.

“Yes, I am considering Enid Partridge. She’s free and I think she’d do a

nice job.”

Emily nodded in agreement. “Good choice.” She extended her hand. “Again,

let me tell you how sorry I am about leaving, but you know how it is.”

“Just a minute, Emily. Do you like the part of the grandmother? I mean

if it wasn’t for the other thing....”

“I love it,” Emily said with a shrug. “I would have enjoyed playing it.”

Stalkey smiled. “Well then, it’s not all bad news, anyway.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“The present company—the one that’s in New York now—has been booked to

open in London. Paula Howard doesn’t want to leave the country. She’s

doing a fine job as the grandmother here, but doesn’t think she’s up to

making the trip. She wants to resign the part.”

Emily brightened considerably. “And you want me to take her place?” she

asked.

Stalkey nodded. “What about it?”

Emily nodded her head emphatically. “When do we leave?”

“Not for another six months. Although Paula wants out right away. Do you

think you could take over in two weeks, say?”

“I could take over right now,” Emily declared.

Oscar Stalkey sighed. “Good. At least that’s one thing off my mind.”

“Tell me something, Oscar,” Emily asked curiously. “The New York company

is scheduled to go to London in six months. How are you planning to

replace them here?”

“I had thought of bringing in the Chicago road company. But now”—Oscar

Stalkey shook his head darkly—“I don’t know. We’ll cross that bridge

later.”

“There’s one more thing you ought to know,” Emily said. “Marcy Hubbard

is thinking of quitting.”

Oscar Stalkey drew a deep breath. “Did she tell you that?”

Emily nodded. “She thinks it would be bad for her career to open in a

play that’s as bad as this.”

“Oh, she does, does she?” the producer said grimly.

“Don’t blame her, Oscar,” Emily urged. “Besides, she’s had a very

attractive offer from Hollywood.”

Oscar Stalkey sighed. “Let her go, if she wants to. That’s one problem

I’m not worried about. I know who’ll take her part.”

“Who?”

“Peggy Lane.”

Stalkey made the announcement of Emily Burckhardt’s resignation late

that afternoon. The cast was shocked by the news and sat in numbed

surprise. After that, Craig Claiborne excused them and posted a notice

for ten o’clock the following morning. Slowly, everyone left the

theater, struggling into heavy coats as they prepared to face a swirling

snowstorm that had struck New York about noon that day.

Peggy didn’t leave the theater at once. She hunched in one of the seats

of the auditorium, thinking about the past three and a half weeks. It

seemed impossible that they would be opening in ten days. Half her life

she had been looking forward to the day when she would be rehearsing a

play with a professional company. She had imagined the fun of working

together, the excitement of the big night approaching. But instead of

what her imagination had led her to expect, she was left with an empty

feeling of hopeless frustration. She realized with sudden clarity that

she didn’t care _when_ the play opened. It all seemed so pointless.

She sighed, struggled wearily to her feet, and walked aimlessly down the

aisle and on up to the stage. There was no sense in staying here. She’d

go home and talk to May. She turned the corner to go backstage, then

stopped abruptly.

There was a light on in Katherine Nelson’s dressing room. The door was

ajar, and from where Peggy stood she could see the star sitting in front

of her make-up table, her head buried in her hands. As Peggy watched,

Katherine Nelson drew her hands from her face and stared at her

reflection in the mirror. Peggy saw that she had been crying.

It was an embarrassing moment. Peggy didn’t know whether to make her

presence known or remain hidden in the shadows of the darkened stage. As

she hesitated in momentary indecision, the heavy iron stage door leading

to the street banged open, and for a second or two winter roared into

the theater. The door clanged shut and footsteps shuffled up the

passageway. In her dressing room, Katherine Nelson jumped to her feet

and came out into the backstage area. “Who’s there?” she cried sharply.

“It’s all right, miss,” came a voice.

The next instant Peggy saw a large, craggy policeman step into the

circle of light. With one hand he brushed away the snow clinging to his

uniform. His other hand clutched a small boy, who seemed to be staring

around in expectant wonder. Peggy recognized the little boy at once. It

was Tommy Stanton.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the policeman said, touching his hat. “But where

would I find a Mr. Armour?”

[Illustration: _With one hand, the policeman clutched a small boy._]

“Mr. Armour?” Katherine Nelson answered vacantly. “Nobody by that name

here.”

The policeman bent down and addressed his charge. “You see, son?” he

asked kindly. “You must have made a mistake.”

“No, sir,” the boy said in a clear, emphatic voice, “I know him.” He

looked at Katherine Nelson curiously. “Are you one of the queens?” he

asked.

Katherine Nelson frowned. “Queens? What’s this all about?”

The policeman shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Well, it’s this way,

ma’am. I found this little fellow wandering around Times Square all

alone. He told me he lives all the way out on Long Island, and I can’t

imagine how he got here by himself. Anyway, he did, and I was going to

take him over to the stationhouse, but he won’t tell me his name until

he sees this friend of his.” The policeman fished in his pocket and came

up with a ragged newspaper clipping. “Do you know who this is?” He

showed her the scrap of paper. “The boy seems to know him as Mr. Armour,

even though the name under the picture is Tom Agate.”

Peggy saw Katherine Nelson start. She looked down at Tommy Stanton and

then back at the photograph. “What made you come here?” she asked the

officer.

“The piece in the paper here,” he said, pointing it out with a stubby

finger. “It said that Mr. Agate—or Mr. Armour or whatever his name is—is

rehearsing at the Elgin Theater. The boy is full of some kind of story

about a secret place with one-eyed giants. I couldn’t make any sense out

of that, so I decided to give the theater a try since it wasn’t much out

of our way.”

Katherine Nelson took the newspaper clipping from the policeman and

leaned down beside Tommy. “Will you tell me your name?” she asked.

“Tommy,” came the prompt reply.

“Well, Tommy, you see this picture here?” She showed him the picture.

“Where did you get it?”

“I tore it out of the paper. Can I see him, please?”

“What do you want to see him about?”

“I learned the piece he taught me the other day,” Tommy said simply.

Then, for the first time, Peggy realized he was carrying the banjo that

Tom had given him. The little boy held it out proudly. “Would you like

me to play it for you?”

When Katherine Nelson saw the instrument, she gasped and stepped back a

pace. The policeman threw out a hand to support her. “Are you all right,

ma’am?” he asked anxiously.

“Yes,” the actress assured him. “I’m all right.” She returned to Tommy.

“Do you like Mr. Armour?” she asked.

The look on the boy’s face was all the answer she needed.

“He’s—” Tommy struggled to express himself. “He’s my very best friend in

the world.” Unexpectedly, his face began to cloud. “Couldn’t I please

see him now?” he begged. “Please?”

“He’s had a hard day, ma’am,” the policeman murmured. “I expect he’s

pretty cold and hungry. If this Mr. Armour isn’t here, I think I’d

better get the boy to the station house and start checking with Missing

Persons.”

“No, don’t!” Katherine Nelson cried sharply. “I know where he is. I’ll

take the boy to him.”

“I’m afraid I can’t just leave him with you, ma’am,” the policeman

explained apologetically. “I don’t even know who you are.”

The actress stepped closer to the policeman. “Don’t you recognize me?”

she said. “I’m Katherine Nelson.”

The policeman’s eyes widened. “Oh, beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.”

Katherine Nelson reached out gently for Tommy’s hand. “He’s come to the

right place,” she said, a soft smile stealing over her face. “I’ll take

him to Mr. Armour, and I’ll assume responsibility.”

The policeman seemed relieved. “Then you know Mr. Armour?”

“Oh, yes—” Katherine Nelson paused, and then said, in a voice that was

barely audible to Peggy, “You see, Mr.—Armour is—is my husband.”

XV

“Curtain Going Up!”

“... It isn’t a very pretty story,” Katherine Nelson was saying. It was

a little after ten the following morning. Members of the cast, Oscar

Stalkey, Craig Claiborne, Peter Grey, and Pam Mundy were all sitting on

stage. They had reported, expecting a rehearsal, but had been met

instead by the producer who told them that Katherine Nelson had an

announcement to make. Peggy, who had slipped out of the theater the

night before without being seen, was curled up in a chair on the side of

the stage, waiting breathlessly for what she knew was coming.

“You see,” Katherine Nelson went on with a curious half-smile, “Tom

Agate and I were married.” She waited patiently for the buzz of

excitement to die down. “As a matter of fact,” she added, “we still are.

But we’ve been separated for many years now. And I’m afraid it’s been my

fault.”

“Now wait a minute,” Tom interrupted, reaching out for her hand. He was

sitting beside her, looking younger and fresher than Peggy had ever seen

him. “It’s no good your taking all the blame.” He turned to his fellow

cast members and began speaking in a low tone.

“When Katherine and I were married,” he said, “we were very

young—Katherine was only sixteen—very much in love and very happy. The

whole world seemed to be made especially for us. I was doing well as a

star in vaudeville and the future looked good.

“Eventually,” he went on, “we had a little girl. She went wherever we

did. You’ve all read stories about how, in the days of vaudeville,

people used to play one-night stands across the country. Well, it’s

perfectly true. That’s exactly what we did. And we took our little

girl—Kathy, we called her—everywhere we went.”

He paused, cleared his throat and went on:

“I guess Kathy wasn’t too strong, and that kind of life was bad for her.

In any event, she died when she was two years old.” He said this last

quickly, as if he didn’t want to dwell on it. “We were both pretty

upset,” he said, staring fixedly at the row of darkened footlights in

front of him, “and I suppose we both lost our heads.”

“That’s not quite true.” Katherine Nelson took up the story. “What

really happened was that I blamed Tom for Kathy’s death. Oh, I know it

was foolish of me. But I felt there _had_ to be some reason for her

going like that. I couldn’t bear to think that it just happened. And so

I talked myself into believing that it was all Tom’s fault.” The actress

took a deep breath. “We parted. Tom kept on in vaudeville and I—well, I

went home to my father. But when he died, the theater was the only thing

I knew, so I started to act. It had been ten years. I hadn’t kept in

touch with anyone. No one remembered me. Vaudeville was dying, so I

tried serious acting. You know the rest.”

“I went ahead doing the same things I’d always done,” Tom explained. “I

kept thinking Katherine would come back to me and I wanted to be in a

position to take care of her. Vaudeville was on the way out, so I tried

the movies and radio. As long as I had the hope that Katherine might

need me, I kept working.

“Then fifteen years after she left me, she suddenly was a star herself.

I left the theater then—but not for long. The servicemen needed me

during World War II. After the war, nobody needed me—until Peggy said

she did. And I saw that Katherine did too.”

Katherine Nelson shook her head. “I’d lost track of Tom completely. I

never expected to see him again. Then, when he showed up in this cast,

all the old memories—the old hatred and pain—came back. At first, I

couldn’t face even seeing him. I still blamed him, you see, and I

refused to forget.”

She straightened her shoulders and looked for a long minute at all of

them. “I’m afraid I was pretty unpleasant. I thought to myself, I must

get rid of that man! And so I tried every way I knew how to force Oscar

Stalkey to fire him. When that didn’t work, I tried to shame Tom into

going away of his own accord.” She turned to him with a questioning

glance. “I still don’t know how you found the courage to stick it out. I

was so cruel.”

Tom smiled gently. “I knew you were miserable,” he told her. “Wrapped up

in the same kind of misery that I had created for myself. I wanted to

show you a way out. I thought that if I stayed you’d see that all this

unhappiness was of your own making.”

“And I _did_ see it,” Katherine Nelson said. “I saw it a hundred times

every day, but each time I shut my eyes deliberately. It wasn’t until I

met a little boy who had come to see Tom—a little boy who told me what

Tom meant to him—that I finally realized what I had done to myself—and

all of you. I want to say to every one of you, I’m sorry. And if it’s

not too late, I’d like to start rehearsals today, really working

together.”

There was a silence. Finally, Oscar Stalkey stood up. “Last night,” he

said, “Tom Agate and Katherine Nelson came to see me. We had quite a

talk. Among other things, we discussed what’s wrong with the way we’re

doing _Innocent Laughter_. The main point we agreed upon is this. We’ve

been putting too much emphasis on the part of the mother. Actually, the

center of action lies with the older woman, the grandmother.” He paused

and clasped his hands behind his back. “I asked Katherine if she would

play that part and her answer was yes. That means we’ll have to get a

replacement for the mother, but that shouldn’t be too difficult.

“Meanwhile, there’s another thing. Marcy Hubbard has left the cast.” He

grinned at them cheerfully. “All in all, I think you’ll admit it was

quite a night. She asked to be relieved of her contract because she said

she had a very attractive offer from Hollywood. I was more than happy to

do what she asked because filling in for Marcy was no trouble at all.”

He turned to Peggy with a smile. “Peggy,” he announced, “you’ll be

playing the part of the young daughter in _Innocent Laughter_.”

There were telegrams from her family, from May and Amy and Randy. There

were flowers from Oscar Stalkey and Peter, and a large bottle of perfume

from Craig Claiborne. And then, there was the audience. Standing in the

wings amid the bustling confusion of stagehands and electricians, Peggy

could hear them file into the theater. Muffled sounds of conversation

and an occasional laugh filtered through the heavy curtain.

“Five minutes,” came Mr. Fox’s insistent voice. “Curtain in five

minutes.” He hurried away on some mysterious errand.

Peggy leaned her head against the backstage wall. She was tired but

exhilarated. The past ten days had been the most wonderful of her life.

Even the confusion and the discomfort of the trip to Baltimore had been

fun. This was the theater as she had always dreamed it, and she was

about to step on stage in the most important role of her life.

“Places everyone, please. Clear the stage.” Mr. Fox’s voice was quiet,

but it carried a ring of authority. “Places for the first act.” He

paused briefly beside Peggy. “You okay?” he asked. “Everything all

right?” Peggy nodded. “Good.” Mr. Fox grunted. “I hope you break a leg,”

he said and disappeared.

Peggy smiled to herself. She hadn’t heard that for quite a while. In the

theater it was considered a bad omen to wish an actor good luck, and so,

instead, you told him you hoped something awful would happen to him. Out

in front there was an excited buzz as the house lights flickered their

warning.

Then, suddenly, out of the darkness beside her, a voice spoke softly.

“Hello, Peggy.” It was Katherine Nelson.

Peggy turned and smiled. “Hello, Miss Nelson.” She saw Tom standing

beside his wife.

“We don’t have much time,” the actress said to Peggy. “But before we go

on, I want to tell you how much we appreciate everything you did. Tom

and I know that you were the one who really brought us back together.”

“I’m sure you didn’t know what you were doing,” Tom said. “But that’s

the way it turned out.”

“I’m glad,” Peggy said simply. “I’m glad for you both.”

“There’s another thing I have to thank you for,” Katherine Nelson said.

“Somehow tonight—with Tom—I feel that I’m about to start my career all

over again.” She paused and shook her head. “No, that’s not quite it.

It’s that I’m about to begin a new phase—a new life for myself....”

“And for me,” Tom said softly.

Before Peggy could answer, Mr. Fox was back. “Curtain going up,” he

whispered urgently. “Quiet, _please_!”

Katherine Nelson detached herself from the shadows, straightened her

skirt, and stepped up for her entrance. She turned and looked at Peggy

and Tom, gave them a quick wink, and pushed open the door. The applause

in the theater thundered out when the audience recognized her.

Peggy hardly remembered the first act. Her lines came automatically and

she was too excited to know whether it was going well or badly. By the

second act, that feeling had passed and she was beginning to wonder. Her

big scene—the one with Tom—was coming up, and as she took her position

behind the familiar door, she had the same sensation of nervous fear she

had had the day she first tried out for Craig Claiborne.

The lights dimmed and Peggy knew it was time. With a trembling hand she

pushed open the door and looked out over the semi-darkened stage. A lone

figure was slumped in the chair by the fireplace. Peggy tip-toed into

the room, went over to the window, looked out and sighed.

“‘Why did you come in so quietly?’” Tom said. “‘You’re as furtive as a

lady burglar tonight. What’s wrong?’”

“‘Oh!’” Peggy gasped. “‘I didn’t know anybody was here.’”

“‘I’ll go if you like,’” came Tom’s reply.

Peggy moved over to him. “‘Oh, no! Please don’t! There’s—there’s

something I want to talk to you about....’”

Suddenly all the nervousness, the worry, vanished. It was all right.

Peggy could feel it and, even more important, she knew the audience

could feel it too.

Completely poised, she sat down on the little footstool beside Tom and

stared into his face. He was smiling at her. It was a good smile—strong,

yet gentle.

Peggy met his gaze and smiled back. This was the moment she had always

known would come. She was glad it had come with Tom Agate.

[Illustration: Endpapers]

[Illustration: Back cover]