In the references to her coming he had heard her name spoken and now, by a sheer mental effort, he managed to recall it.
"You are Miss Fairfax," he said. "And my name, perhaps I ought to add, is Daunt. I am the Secretary of Embassy. I hope, after our little effort of to-night, you will not consider diplomacy only high-class vaudeville. Such comedy scarcely represents our daily bill."
"It came near enough to being tragedy," she answered.
"It was so uncommonly life-like, I was torn with a fear that you might not guess it was gotten up for your especial benefit."
"How well you treat your visitors!" she said with gentle irony. "Had you many rehearsals?"
"Very few," he said. "I was afraid the boy might misread the stage direction and slip the dog-chain too soon. But I am greatly pleased. I have always had an insatiable longing to be a hero—if only on the stage. I aspire to Grand Opera, also, as you have noticed." He laughed, a trifle shamefacedly, then added quickly: "I hope you liked the final disappearance act. It was rather effective, don't you think?"
She smiled unwillingly. "Ah, you make light of it! But don't think I didn't know how quickly you acted—what you risked in that one minute! And then to run back a second time!" She shuddered a little. "You could have done nothing with that piece of wood!"
"I assure you," he said, "you underrate my prowess! But it wasn't to be used—it was only the dog's cue."
"Poor brute!" she said. "I hope he will injure nobody."
"Luckily, the children are off the streets at this hour," he answered. "He'll not go far; the police are too numerous. I am afraid our very efficient performer is permanently retired from the company. But I haven't yet congratulated you. You didn't seem one bit afraid."