Bryton winced at the contempt in her voice. She caught her breath, and went on swiftly:
“Now, not content with pestering me to marry you, when you know I loathe the very sight of you, you want me to do a dishonorable thing which would make me hate myself all my life long. But I won’t do it! You knew that long ago, didn’t you? I’d play my part to-morrow night if I was dying, and I mean to play it for all that is in me. If ‘Jarvis of Yale’ isn’t a success, it won’t be because Marion Gray hasn’t done her best to make it so.”
With the last word, she sprang swiftly to her feet, and, before the angry man realized what had happened, she reached the door and disappeared.
CHAPTER XXII
OUT OF A CLEAR SKY.
Dick Merriwell was rather surprised to get a note from Demarest—the latter had not been able to reach him on the telephone—saying that he had been unexpectedly called to New York for the day, and asking Dick if he would not keep an eye on the workmen at the theatre that afternoon, if possible.
This Merriwell was, of course, very ready to do. He made three trips down there before going to the field, and found matters progressing as well as could be expected.
He was amused, and, for an instant, surprised, at being mistaken for Demarest, but he did not disabuse the men of their error. It would be just as well for them to think that he was the actor. They would perhaps work the better while he was looking on. Knowing the work which had to be done, he was able to straighten out several doubtful matters, and when he stopped again on his way home from practice, he was more than pleased at the strides they had made during his absence. The place was neat as a pin, and only a few more hours’ work was necessary to finish everything up.
He rather expected that Demarest would call him up that evening, but no message came. Finally, about half-past eight, he got the hotel on the wire, and found that the actor had not returned.
“He’ll probably get the early train in the morning,” he said to himself. “I’ll hear from him then.”