He knocked timidly at the porch door, and held out a telegram at arm’s length.
“I’ve got to go back to New York,” said Jasper, reading it; “they want me for the play.”
“But you can’t!” I cried; “we’ve just come!”
“I know.” Jasper was absently folding the paper up into a tiny yellow square, without looking at me.
“They told you they were all through with you.”
“I know it.”
“Who signed the telegram?”
“Why,—Tyrrell Burton.” He handed it to me.
Trouble again. Have fired M. M. Must change part or Gaya walks out on us. For God’s sake come and help me.
Tyrrell.