A STOLEN BOY
“Doesn’t she sing wonderfully?” whispered Miss Mason to Larry.
“Yes,” he answered, but it was plain that his thoughts were on
something else besides the music. He was narrowly watching the singer,
occasionally casting glances into the wings, or the scenery at either
side of the stage. He was watching for another sight of the boy, who
looked so much like Madame Androletti.
The concert went on, and it seemed that nothing more out of the
ordinary was to happen. The orchestra played its numbers to perfection,
as nearly as Larry could tell, and, as for the singing, he made up his
mind that he would report to Mr. Rosberg that it was “slick.”
Larry was not very well “up,” on musical terms, but he knew that the
_Leader_ was not paying him as a musical critic, and he did not worry.
“Anyhow, there’ll be a good story in how she collapsed in the middle of
a song, whether the report of the concert is good or not,” mused Larry.
Madame Androletti came on several times, and sang as encores a number
of songs not down on the program. She seemed to be in unusually
good spirits, and was roundly applauded. Not a trace of her former
indisposition was noticeable.
“I’ll have to wait a bit after the concert is over,” Larry whispered to
his companion, during a pause in the program.
“Why?” she asked.
“I want to get an interview with Madame Androletti, and I’ve got to ask
the orchestra leader what those extra numbers were.”
“I can do that for you,” offered Molly readily. “I know some of them,
as it is, and I can easily get the names of the others.”
“Will you?” he asked eagerly. “That’ll be fine! Then we won’t have to
wait so long. Are you sure you won’t mind?”
“Not a bit,” she replied, with a smile. “I fancy I would like to be a
reporter.”
“You’d make a better one than lots of ’em who imagine they’re
journalists,” said Larry.
The concert was nearing an end. Madame Androletti had sung her last
number with great success, and had retired, bowing her thanks for the
frantic applause. The curtain started down, and Larry watched it.
Suddenly he became aware that something unusual was taking place
behind it. He had a glimpse of the lower part of the singer’s dress,
which he could easily distinguish under the curtain. She was the only
lady in view among a number of gentlemen, who had also taken part in
the program. And Larry was sure he saw the singer running across the
stage as fast as she could go, with gentlemen trailing after her. Of
the latter Larry could only see their legs from their knees down. The
curtain was almost on the stage.
The playing of the orchestra drowned any noise that might have
otherwise been heard. Larry looked around. The audience was leaving.
No one seemed to be paying any attention to the stage, not even the
musicians, who were down too low to see under the curtain, in any event.
Larry noted, with satisfaction, that a number of reporters for other
papers, whom he had seen earlier in the evening, had gone. They had not
stayed to the finish.
“And maybe here’s where I beat ’em!” thought Larry grimly.
He looked about for a sight of the big decorated foreigner, or his
confederates, as the young reporter called them, but none was in sight.
“I’m going back of the scenes,” Larry whispered to Molly. “You just ask
the orchestra leader the names of the extra numbers. Say you’re from
the _Leader_, and it will be all right. I’ll be back as soon as I can.
Wait in the lobby for me.”
With that the young reporter left his seat, and, crossing through an
empty row of orchestra chairs, he made his way to a lower box, whence
he could get behind the curtain.
Larry boldly pushed his way in. He was used to doing that. Besides, at
this time, there was no one to stop him. He found himself on an almost
deserted stage. It was brilliantly lighted, for scene-shifters were at
work, putting away the setting just used, and bringing out another that
was to come into play for the next performance the following afternoon.
No one seemed to pay any attention to the young reporter. He knew
the general location of the dressing-rooms, and started toward them,
intending to ask the first door-tender he saw for Madame Androletti. He
was dimly aware of some confusion in the left wings, but he could see
nothing.
“That’s the place for me!” thought Larry, hurrying on.
He had crossed the stage, and was pressing ahead, when some one hailed
him.
“Hey, young feller, where you goin’?”
“Back here,” answered Larry, non-committally.
“Where’s that?”
“To see Madame Androletti.”
“Got a pass? Got any authority?”
Larry took a quick resolve.
“I’m from the _Leader_!” he exclaimed. “I want to see Madame
Androletti. I covered the concert to-night. It was great. There’s
my card. See you later--appointment--important--she wants to see
me!” murmured Larry, quickly, as he hurried on, thrusting a bit of
pasteboard into the man’s hand.
“Wants to see you, eh?” murmured the man.
“Yes,” called back Larry, now some distance away. The young reporter
little realized how true his hastily-spoken words would prove to be.
The young newspaper reporter pushed on. He was amid a confusion of
scenery now. Tree stumps, castle walls, the ceilings of rooms, a pair
of stairs, an arbor covered with trailing vines--the various things
used to set the stage. He threaded in and out among them.
A man in a dress suit confronted him, a man whom Larry at once
recognized as Madame Androletti’s manager.
“Who are you? What do you want?” the manager asked suspiciously.
Larry realized that he could not bluff this man.
“I’m from the _Leader_,” said the young reporter quickly. “My card,”
and he extended one. “What’s the matter? I’m sure something is wrong.
I’ve got to have the story. Why did Madame Androletti faint? What’s up
now?”
The manager glanced at Larry’s card.
“Ah, from the _Leader_, eh? Well, your paper has been very kind
to us. I will tell you, though I do not usually see the need of
sensationalism. However, there is none here. As you may perhaps know,
Madame Androletti, whom I have the honor of representing, personally,
travels about with her young son, Lorenzo. He is her only child, and,
since the death of his father, he has been _en tour_ with his mother.
He is always somewhere on the stage when she sings.
“She is very nervous about him, and just now, after her final number,
she missed him. She feared he might have strayed away, and been hurt,
and she called out. That raised a little alarm, and, as we all know how
devoted she is to him, we all began a search for the lad.”
The manager, who was Señor Maurice Cotta, paused.
“Did you find him?” asked Larry.
“His mother did,” was the answer of Señor Cotta. “He was in her
dressing-room, I believe. She is close at hand. Hark, I think I can
hear her talking to him now.”
He held up a fat, pudgy hand. Larry listened. Plainly enough he could
hear a woman’s voice murmuring:
“My son! My boy! My little Lorenzo!” Then followed something in Italian.
“So, you see, there is no story for you, Señor _Leader_--I beg your
pardon--Dexter,” spoke the manager, with a smile. “I am sorry, but you
will have only to write about our concert.”
“And about Madame Androletti fainting,” added Larry, feeling rather
disappointed, as all true newspaper men do at a story not “panning
out.” It is not through heartlessness that they are thus regretful,
but because it is their profession to hunt out news.
“Oh, yes, her indisposition,” murmured Señor Cotta.
“It was plucky of her to keep on,” said Larry. “I’ll have a good story
of it.”
“Ah, thank you.”
“Perhaps I could see her, and ask her if she is all right again,”
proposed Larry. “A little interview----”
“Ah, exactly!” exclaimed the manager, not at all unwilling to get all
the press notices he could for the prima donna he was managing. “This
way, I’ll point out her room. She will see you.”
He left Larry at the door of the dressing-room. It was not the first
time our hero had interviewed stage people in their rooms. As he
paused, before knocking, he heard the murmuring voice again.
“Ah, my Lorenzo! My little Lorenzo!”
Larry was at once impressed by two things. One was that there was no
answering tones of a boy’s voice, and the other was that there was, in
the notes of Madame Androletti, extreme anguish. It was not as though
she was speaking to her son, but, rather, lamenting him. Larry grew
suddenly suspicious.
He knocked on the door. There was a moment of silence, and then a
strained voice answered:
“Who is there? Go away! I can see no one!”
Larry resolved on a sudden plan. He was going to do a daring thing.
There was no other person in sight.
“Madame Androletti!” he called, with his lips close to the portal. “I
am a reporter from the _Leader_. I was at your concert to-night. I saw
the man with the foreign decoration. I saw his two confederates. I may
be able to help you find your son.”
The door was fairly flung open. The singer, with tears in her eyes,
confronted the young reporter.
“What is that?” she whispered hoarsely. “You can find my boy? My
Lorenzo--my little boy? Oh, don’t play with me! Who are you? How do you
know my boy is gone? Oh, but he is! Why should I try to hide it? He is
gone--stolen! Oh, can you help me?” and she held out her hands to Larry
with a dramatic gesture.
He had guessed better than he dared to hope. The boy was missing, after
all. And she had given the impression to every one else in the theater
that he was safe with her! What mystery was here?