The curtain fell behind Frank, shutting out the marked mirror and the wonderful fly, now resting quietly in the blank corner.
Merriwell stood at the front of the stage, bowing, as the audience departed, while the pianist marched them out with his music.
Thaddeus Burnham remained in the box office until everyone had left the theater, and then he came panting and palpitating to the dressing room, where Frank was getting into his own clothes.
"Not a cent," jubilantly cried Burnham—"not a cent did I give back! Nobody called for money! It is amazing!"
Frank smiled quietly.
"But the performance was all right," averred the manager. "I didn't suppose you could do it. And that fly business—why, that was wonderful! How in the name of creation did you do that?"
"Magicians do not give away the manner in which they perform their feats," said Merry, quietly.
"I know it, but—well, never mind. You did it, and that's enough. Come into the office, and we'll settle. You have made a tidy sum to-night."
The assistant, M. Mazarin, was standing near, looking glum and dissatisfied.