"And what is that subject?" Sylvanus Power thundered.
"No woman's name is mentioned here," Philip told him calmly.
Several of the men had sprung to their feet. It seemed from Power's attitude as though murder might be done. Philip, however, stood his ground almost contemptuously, his frame tense and poised, his fists clenched. Suddenly the strain passed. The man whose face for a moment had been almost black with passion, lowered his cane, swayed a little upon his feet, and recovered himself.
"So you know what I've come here to talk about, young man?" he demanded.
"One can surmise," Philip replied. "If you think it worth while, I will accompany you to my rooms or to yours."
Philip in those few seconds made a reputation for himself which he never lost. The little company of men looked at one another in mute acknowledgment of a courage which not one of them failed to appreciate.
"I'll take you at your word," Sylvanus Power decided grimly. "Here, boys," he went on, moving towards the table where Philip had been seated, "give me a drink—some rye whisky. I'm dry."
Not a soul stirred. Even Noel Bridges remained motionless. Heselton, the junior manager of the theatre, met the millionaire's eye and never flinched. Mr. Honeybrook knocked the ash from his cigar and accepted the rôle of spokesman.
"Mr. Power," he said, "we are a hospitable company here, and we are at all times glad to entertain
