THE CLUE
Outside the door Dorothy again felt that girlish inclination to collapse.
What excuse could she make to her friends for her delay? How would she
get back to them? Perhaps they were looking all over the city for her and
they might have even notified the police of her absence.
All the novelty of the theatre that had, for the past half hour, put a
world between Dorothy and those outside of the stage dressing rooms, was
now dispelled. What would she say or do when she met Rose-Mary? How could
she now conceal her worry and anxiety? How was she to continue her search
for Tavia?
The stage door opened into a dismal, narrow alley. Here Dorothy found
herself in the midst of a scurrying crowd of working people, for several
large factories had just shut down. The girl stood for a moment and
looked helplessly about her. Presently she felt an arm on her shoulder
and started in alarm.
“Dorothy!” exclaimed a voice, and she turned to see Nat standing beside
her.
“Oh, Nat! I’m so glad!”
“So am I. Just step along this way. I knew you hadn’t come out the front
way so I came here.”
Dorothy pressed her shoulder against her cousin in a helpless, imploring
sort of way. He seemed to know what the action meant for instantly he had
ready to recite, a most plausible explanation of her disappearance.
“You got left behind and were frightened,” he asked and answered in same
breath. “I knew it—I told ’em all so. Then some of the ushers took you
back and let you out of the stage door. Silly, to get alarmed over a
little thing like that. But I couldn’t talk to Mrs. Markin—she was almost
in hysterics. We’d better hurry back to relieve her suspense.”
“I should not have delayed talking, but really I was so—so frightened,”
ventured Dorothy.
“Cert you were. Well, you just let me tell the story. It will save lots
of trouble, but of course the girls will have to know all about the
people you met—behind the scenes.”
Was ever there such a blessed boy as Nat? Here he had nicely explained
all Dorothy’s troubles and in the simplest manner possible. How splendid
boy cousins are, thought Dorothy. They have such a power of sympathy for
girls—better than brothers—if girls would only allow them to exercise
it—in a cousinly way.
Or did Nat know of Dorothy’s deliberate visit to the little actress who
had played Katherine? Perhaps some one had told him his cousin was in the
dressing room and he had just waited for her to appear at the stage door.
Dorothy was sure Nat would save her from making any troublesome
explanations, and when he asked her, in the most matter-of-fact way if
she happened to meet the girl with the brown hair who looked so much like
Tavia, she had no hesitation in telling him that she was Miss Riceman,
and that she was a most charming young lady.
“She doesn’t look a bit like Tavia—close by,” added Dorothy, remembering
the scene in the dressing room. “She is as refined and polite as
possible. She showed me the way out.”
After telling that much of her adventure to Nat, Dorothy was well
prepared to repeat the story to the others, without fear of disclosing
the real object of her visit behind the scenes.
When Mrs. Markin was finally assured of Dorothy’s safety, and had
actually listened with interest to her recital of the trip into
stageland, and her encounters there, the matter was regarded as an
incident fraught with untold curious bits of “real live adventure.” Girls
do delight in investigating and exploring the unusual quite as much as
boys do, although the latter are prone to attribute that faculty to
themselves as something patented.
So it happens that when a girl does actually have an experience she and
her companions know how to appreciate the novelty. That was how it turned
out with Dorothy and her friends. Rose-Mary and Alma couldn’t hear enough
of “behind the scenes” and Alma ventured to ask Dorothy to take them in
through the stage door to make a second call on Miss Riceman, when she
might introduce her friends to a real actress.
But Dorothy tried to appease their curiosity as best she could, telling
over and over again how she got lost in the crowd, how the usher accosted
her, and led her to the stage, and then how she got confused in her
effort to find the “right door” (which was all true enough) and how it
was then that Miss Riceman came out and invited Dorothy in. Then she
related how she became faint and told of the water being brought, and so
on, until the very closing of the stage door after her when she found
herself in the alley with Nat at her side.
But now Dorothy was about to enter upon a delicate and what might prove
to be a difficult adventure. She had to go to the manager’s office the
next afternoon, but beyond that point, she dared not trust herself to
think or plan. When night came, and all seemed to be asleep Dorothy, in
her room in the big hotel, had a chance to look the situation squarely in
the face.
“One thought I must keep before me,” she told herself. “I am bound to
find Tavia and save her. To do this I will have to take great risks, and
perhaps be very much misunderstood, but I must do it. Her risk is even
greater than mine and if I appear to deceive people—even dear, good,
thoughtful Nat,—I must do so to continue my search.”
Then the girl, with aching head, planned how she could get away to see
the theatrical manager the next day. She would not pretend to have any
plans made for going out, and then, just before the hour Miss Riceman had
told her the manager’s office would be open, she would announce that she
wanted to get some souvenirs of Buffalo to take home with her. This, she
decided, would give her an opportunity to hurry away alone.
But, oh, how she dreaded to face that manager! If it were only a woman
who was in charge of the office, but a man! And she had heard vague
stories of how dreadfully rude some managers were to persons who bothered
them. There were so many questions she would have to ask—enough to put
any manager into bad humor she thought—and perhaps there would be young
girls there like Tavia looking for engagements—they would overhear what
she had to say. Oh, it was dreadful, the more she thought of it!
Dorothy buried her head deeper into the pillow and tried to sleep. She
felt that she must get some rest or she would not be able to carry on the
work that demanded so much of her strength, her brains and her courage.
She needed them all now to follow up the clue of Tavia’s whereabouts
given by Miss Riceman.
It was almost morning when Dorothy fell into an unquiet sleep, and it was
glaring daylight, with the sun streaming into her window, when she awoke.
Rose-Mary was moving about the room on tip-toe after some things, feeling
the necessity of allowing Dorothy all possible rest, as she had appeared
so exhausted after her experience of the previous day.
“I’m so sorry you are going away to-morrow,” spoke Rose-Mary, seeing that
Dorothy was awake. “This is the last day we will have together for some
time. I have enjoyed your visit so much.”
“I’m afraid I’ve been rather stupid,” apologized Dorothy, feeling as if
she must make some excuse for her seeming indifference to Rose-Mary’s
entertainment. “But, Cologne dear, I can never tell you how grateful I am
for this chance to see Buffalo. It seems as if I had really entered a new
world since I came into this big city.”
“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed everything, dear,” said Rose-Mary. “But you
must rest to-day and not go sight-seeing any more. You will need to be
fresh for your auto trip to-morrow morning.”
“Oh, yes, I’ll rest to-day,” replied Dorothy, as she slipped into her
dressing-gown and approached the dresser. There she found a dainty array
of remembrances Cologne had selected for her to take home. This was a
surprise and it told Dorothy more plainly than words could, that
Rose-Mary loved her, and so loved to make her happy.
There were some exquisite bits of undecorated china for Dorothy to add to
her collection of hand-painted pieces, there was a “darling” little
traveling mirror from Mrs. Markin, and Jack, who would not be left out in
spite of his sister’s protestations that a strange young man could not
give a young lady a present even if it was a sort of souvenir of Buffalo,
had made Rose-Mary place on the table with the other tokens a cute little
pocket camera. He secretly hoped his sister would just hint to Dorothy
that he had selected it.
Such an array quite overpowered Dorothy and she threw her arms about
Rose-Mary’s neck and cried as if her heart would break.
She calmed down after a while, but even when she and Rose-Mary were
dressed the two had little spells of weeping at the thought of parting.
Jack peeped in at the door, but when he saw his sister and Dorothy in an
embrace, with tears in their eyes, he hurried away, muttering something
about “fool girls crying when they’re happy,” and he “guessed he wouldn’t
hang around to spoil their fun, if that was what they called a merry
time.”
So the two girls were left to themselves to exchange confidences and talk
over their fall meeting at Glenwood when school should begin again.
Time managed to slip around quickly that day, and, when afternoon came,
Dorothy began to get nervous about her prospective visit to the manager’s
office. It would surely seem rude to leave Rose-Mary alone, but nothing
must deter her from carrying out her plan—no, not even the displeasure of
her friends, and this was no small matter to Dorothy when she faced
it—she who made such firm friendships when she did make them, and who was
always an example of good breeding and politeness.
When her valise had been packed, so that the entire evening might be left
for pleasure, and Nat and Ned had appeared from their quarters to make
final arrangements about coming for Dorothy directly after breakfast, she
glanced at her watch and found it lacked just half an hour of five
o’clock! The boys were engaged in an argument with Rose-Mary, as to the
relative beauty of Boston and New York, Ned holding that a Battery and a
Bowery made New York the winner.
Suddenly Dorothy jumped up from the porch chair where she had been
sitting.
“I believe I’ll just run down town to get some more souvenir postal
cards,” she said bravely, as she started to leave the veranda. She had
her purse in her hand, and there was no need to wear a hat.
“Why?” asked Cologne in natural surprise. “I thought you had plenty.”
Nat saw the flush of color that came into Dorothy’s cheeks.
“And I’m with you!” he declared, getting up from his place and assisting
his cousin down the steps. “So long,” he called back. “Do the best you
can, Ned. I’ll be back directly. Just want to make sure that Doro doesn’t
fall by the wayside again,” and at that the two cousins bolted off
laughing, Dorothy having recovered her composure when she saw how quickly
Nat came to her relief. Ned and Rose-Mary were taken so by surprise at
the sudden move that they seemed dazed, and the look on their faces at
the bolt of the two only made the departing ones more merry.
“Nat,” said Dorothy as they turned the corner, “I really wanted to go to
some place—”
“Go ahead then,” he answered, “only, Doro, you know Ned and I are
responsible for you and you had best tell me about it. You know I won’t
interfere—only to be sure it’s all right.”
“Nat, you are such a good cousin,” began Dorothy.
“Good?” echoed Nat. “Why, you don’t say so? Make a note of that and tell
the others—they would never believe me. There, did you see that streak of
sunshine stick to my brow? It was a halo, sure thing. But, I say, what
are you going to do, anyhow?”
“To look for Tavia,” replied Dorothy miserably.
“Thought so. But where is the looking to be done this time?”
“I thought I would inquire at the office of the theatre. They might
happen to know something.”
“All right, come along. I’ll wait outside. Theatre people, especially
managers and those in the office, are usually very busy and won’t keep
you long.”
This was said with all possible kindness, but, somehow, it gave Dorothy a
cold chill. She was so afraid of facing the manager. Oh, if she only
could let Nat go in with her! But that would not be fair to Tavia, whose
secret, if she ever discovered it, she determined to keep inviolate. She
must do it alone, and do it secretly to save Tavia from the possible
consequences of her folly, should it turn out that she really was with a
company “on the road.”
One more block and Nat and Dorothy were in front of the theatre where
they had attended the play the day before. They stood before the great
open lobby, empty now save for a few workmen who were busy with mops
scrubbing the tiled marble floor. Nat took Dorothy’s arm.
“There’s the office of the manager, right over there,” he said,
indicating a small door that bore no mark to distinguish it from many
others that opened from the foyer. “I’ll wait here for you. Now, don’t be
afraid to push yourself up front if there’s a crowd waiting for him. We
haven’t any too much time.”
With all the courage that Dorothy could summon to her aid she walked up
to the little door, opened it and stepped inside a little ante-room. She
was in the manager’s office, and the presence of several other persons,
who turned to stare at her did not serve to put her at her ease.