It was thus that Eugene Vickery found them. His gasp of astonishment ended in a fit of coughing as he came forward, trying to express his amazement and his delight.  
Bret seized his right hand, Eldon his left. Bret was horrified at the ghostly visage of his friend. Already it had a post-mortem look.
 
Vickery saw the shock in Bret’s eyes. He dropped into a seat.
 
“Don’t tell me how bad I look. I know it. But I don’t care. I’ve finished my play! Incidentally my play has finished me. But what does that matter? I put into it 
 
all there was of me. That’s what I’m here for. That’s why there’s nothing much left. But I’m glad. I’ve done all I can. J’ai fait mon possible. It’s glorious 
 
to do that. And it’s a good play. It’s a great play—though I do say it that shouldn’t. Floyd, I’ve got it!” He turned back to Bret. “Poor Floyd here has heard 
 
me read it a dozen times, and he’s suggested a thousand changes. I was in the vein this morning. I worked all day yesterday, and all night till sunrise. Then I was up 
 
at seven. When you called me I was writing like a madman. And when the lunch hour came I was going so fast I didn’t dare stop then even to telephone. I apologize.”
 
“Please don’t,” said Bret.
 
“I see you’ve had your luncheon. Will you have another with me? I’m famished.”
 
He rang for a waiter and ordered a substantial meal and then returned to Bret.
 
“How’s Sheila?”
 
“She—she’s not well.”
 
“What a shame! She ought to be at work and I wish to the Lord she were. I may as well tell you, Bret, that I took the liberty of imagining Sheila as the principal 
 
woman of my play. And now that it’s finished, I can’t think of anybody who fills the bill except your wife. There are thousands of actresses starving to death, but 
 
none of them suits my character. None of them could play it but your Sheila.”
 
“Then for God’s sake let her play it!” Bret groaned. Vickery, astonished beyond surprise, mumbled, “What did you say?”
 
Bret repeated his prayer, explained the situation to the incredulous Vickery, apologized for himself and his plight. Vickery’s joy came slowly with belief. The red 
 
glow that spotted his cheeks spread all over his face like a creeping fire.
 
When he understood, he murmured: “Bret, you’re a better man than I thought you were. Whether or not you’ve saved Sheila’s life, you’ve certainly saved mine.” A 
 
torment of coughing broke down his boast, and he amended, “Artistically, I mean. You’ve saved my play, and that’s all that counts. The one sorrow of mine was that 
 
when I had finished it there was no one to give it life. But what if Sheila doesn’t like it? What if she refuses!”
 
His woe was so profound that Bret reached across the table and squeezed his arm—it was hardly more than a bone. Bret said, “I’ll make her like it!”
 
“She’s sure to,” Eldon said.
 
Vickery broke in: “You ought to hear him read it. Sometimes he reads a doubtful scene to me. Then it sounds greater to me than I ever dreamed. A manuscript is like an 
 
electric-light bulb, all glass and brass and little loops of thread that don’t mean anything. When the right actor reads it it fills with light like a bowl of fire 
 
and shines into dark places.” His mood was so grave that it influenced his language.
 
Bret said, “Let me take the manuscript to Sheila.”
 
Vickery frowned. “It’s not in shape for her eyes. It ought to be read to her.”
 
“Come read it to her, then.”
 
“My voice is gone and I cough all the time, but if—”
 
He paused. He did not dare suggest that Eldon read it for him. Eldon did not dare to volunteer. Bret did not dare to ask him. But at length, after a silence of crucial 
 
distress, he overcame himself and said, with difficulty:
 
“Perhaps Mr. Eldon would be—would be willing to read it.”
 
“I should be very glad to,” said Eldon in a low tone.
 
It was strange how solemn and tremulous they were all three over so small a matter. A razor edge is a small thing, but a most uncomfortable place to balance.
 
Vickery broke out with a revulsion to hope. “Great!” he exclaimed. “When?”
 
“This afternoon would please me best,” said Bret, rather sickly, now that the business had gone so far. “If Mr. Eldon—”
 
“I am free till seven,” said Eldon.
 
“I’ll go back and ask Mrs. Winfield, if she hasn’t gone out,” said Bret, rising.
 
“I’ll go fasten the manuscript together,” said Vickery, rising.
 
“I’ll go along and glance over the new scenes,” said Eldon, rising.
 
“Telephone me at my place,” said Vickery, “and let me know one way or the other as soon as you can. The suspense is killing.”
 
They walked out on the steps of the club, and Bret hailed a passing taxicab. As he turned round he saw Eldon lifting Vickery into a car that was evidently his own, for 
 
he took the wheel.
 
The nearer he got to the hotel the more Bret repented of his rash venture, the uglier it looked from various angles. He hoped that Sheila would be at the 
 
dressmaker’s, contenting herself with rhapsodies in silk.
 
But she was sitting at the window. She was dressed, but her eyes were dull as she turned to greet him.
 
“How are you, honey?” he asked.
 
“I’m all right,” she sighed. The old phrase!
 
Then he knew he had crossed the Rubicon and must go forward. “Why didn’t you go to your fitting?”
 
“I tried to, but I was too weak. I don’t need any new clothes. How was your business talk?”
 
“I can’t tell yet,” he said, and, after a battle............