"We mean," said Al, "that this is a private affair with which the papers have nothing to do."
"But, my dear boy, think—only think—what a grand ad. it would make for the show!"
"No matter; we don't want a word printed about it."
"Of course not," said the actress. "I should think you would understand our feelings in the matter, Mr. Wattles."
"Well, I don't," returned the manager, evidently chagrined. "I cannot, to save my life, see why you are willing to throw away such a chance for a stunning free ad. Nor"—addressing Al—"can I understand your scruples. By Jove! you are the queerest combination of impudence and modesty that I ever met. But have it your own way, my children; throw away the chance if you want to."
As he was about to leave the room the old gentleman turned again, saying:
"I almost forgot that I had a letter for you, Miss March. Here it is, and I think I know the handwriting."
As the actress glanced at the superscription on the envelope she changed color.
"It is from that wretch, Farley!" she exclaimed.
"So I thought," said Mr. Wattles. "You had better look out for that man, my dear. He is, or thinks he is, desperately in love with you, and he may give you some trouble yet. If you don't mind, I should like to know the contents of that letter. Believe me, it is not from mere idle curiosity that I ask you to let me read it."