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 her shoulder when her lover leans on the back of it. You can't escape that sort of love scene, you know, in a modern drama."

The young man laughed heartily. Then he said, "By Jove! you've struck it! I am an actor."

"No, you're not," said Astro. "You're a playwright, and a successful one."

The young man jumped up and banged his fist on the table. "What do you think of that!" he exclaimed.

Astro smiled cryptically. Then, "With considerable literary ambition, as well."

His client sat down again as suddenly, and stared at the Seer. "See here! I want to tell you something. I had no idea of coming to you for advice. All I wanted was local color, as you've discovered. I wanted hints as to setting, props, and business. I wanted a good characterization. And, by Jove! I wish you'd play my Granthope! But never mind that. I'd just like to ask you a question about a queer experience I've had lately. You've convinced me that you know some things."

Astro handed him a small silver box. "Have one of my cigarettes," he said. "There are not more than four or five hundred left in the world. They were given me by an army officer who once helped Diaz. Now go on with your story."

"My name is Pinkard, Lionel Pinkard," said the young man, "and, as you discovered, I am a playwright. I've written a book,—too that is, it's almost finished—and it's going to make a sensation—in more ways than one. Plays are all right for making money; but half the audience doesn't know or care who's the author. I confess I want fame. By Jove! that cigarette is sweet! A bit too mild, though, for me. Well,—