ENTER THE GIRL.
The following night, Saturday, while the stage crew were setting the
second act, Klein strolled into the property room for a “side prop.”
“Where’s my decanter?” he asked of the property man, Kingston.
The latter motioned toward a shelf. “Up there. I’ve had a new batch of
tea put in it.”
Klein took the decanter and started with it toward the door. At the same
time he noticed Kingston placing a new photograph in the silver frame
used in the coming act.
Aware of the actor’s apparent interest, the property man said, in a
disgusted way: “These fool temperamental actors make me sick. Tanner
told me I must change the picture in this frame. I told him to go chase
himself, but when Metcalfe came along a few minutes later and asked me
to do the same thing—well, I thought I’d better give in and not take
chances on makin’ trouble.”
“What is the matter with the photograph?” Klein asked casually.
“That’s what I couldn’t get at,” Kingston returned. “The thing ain’t
seen by the audience. If it wasn’t for the director stickin’ to what he
calls details, I could just as well have stuck in a sheet of cardboard.”
Klein reflected, watching the man insert a new photograph and toss
Delmar’s into a drawer.
“Didn’t Tanner or Metcalfe give any reason why they wanted the change
made?” he asked presently.
“Nary a one,” Kingston answered. “Oh, I ain’t been around actors for ten
years for nothin’. You got to treat ’em like a bunch of kids. If I
didn’t change this picture, and one or the other of the fellows went up
in the air over it, Bond would lay me out. You see, I ain’t takin’ no
chances.”
Klein went on the scene that night still puzzled. The fact that both
Tanner and Metcalfe had urged Kingston to remove Delmar’s photograph
from the frame suggested to Klein’s mind several possibilities.
In attempting to deceive him, both men had placed themselves in a bad
light. It was plain to Klein that the two men had been acquainted with
Delmar, in one way or another, and for certain reasons neither of them
desired the fact to become known.
Had not Dodge interrupted yesterday, Metcalfe might have cleared up some
of the mystery; but later, when Klein broached the subject in a tactful
manner—he did not want to give the impression of being too
interested—the juvenile man seemed strangely perturbed, and did not
appear at all anxious to resume the story.
While Klein was disappointed, he was still far from being discouraged—in
fact, he had long ago dismissed the latter word from his vocabulary.
“As Nick Carter would say,” he murmured to himself, as he took his
position before the fireplace and waited for the rising of the curtain:
“‘The trail is growing warmer every minute.’”
After the fall of the final curtain, a party of young people who had
witnessed the performance came back to the stage. Metcalfe, who had been
through the second act, guided them around, answering volleys of
questions.
To the ordinary person in the audience there is always a certain amount
of mystery and glamour connected with the region on the other side of
the footlights, and when offered an opportunity to visit this kingdom of
canvas and tinsel little time is lost in accepting.
When Klein had finished dressing and was giving a final tug at his
cravat, the door of his room was flung open and a bevy of giggling
girls, led by Metcalfe, swarmed in.
“Behold Mr. Klein!” cried the juvenile man, making an exaggerated bow.
“Our lowly but none the less faithful butler.”
Klein was introduced to all of the party.
“This comes near being a surprise party, doesn’t it?” he exclaimed. “Oh,
perhaps, you ladies are making a tour of inspection.”
“Miss Lydecker has come to invite us all to her house,” said Metcalfe
enthusiastically.
Klein bowed his personal acknowledgment. Miss Lydecker seemed about the
most attractive girl he had ever seen.
On the way out of the theater Klein found himself between Miss Lydecker
and her friend, Miss Reed. The latter was considerably the younger of
the two girls, and appeared to be at that age when the feminine heart is
likely to yearn for the glamour of the footlights.
“I think you made a splendid butler, Mr. Klein,” she said. “Really, I
do. I told Helen so when you first came out. Didn’t I, Helen?”
Helen Lydecker nodded.
“Oh, it must be wonderful to be on the stage,” Miss Reed went on, gazing
around at the bare walls, her eyes shining. “To think of devoting all
the years of your life to such a grand profession! Don’t you just love
it, Mr. Klein?”
“I find it interesting,” Klein answered. Swiftly, like a film upon a
screen, he recalled the hours he had spent in chilly offices waiting for
engagements that never materialized; recalled, too, the nerve-racking
rehearsals, once an engagement had been trapped, and the hundred side
parts he had learned in a few days, to say nothing of the weary months
of one-night stands. All of this he remembered, but still smiled into
the girl’s eager face.
Later, when they had reached the stage door and were climbing into
several automobiles standing at the curb, Miss Reed leaned close to
Klein and whispered:
“I’m just dying to be an actress. Don’t you think you could help me to
get on the stage?”
“I’m afraid any assistance I might offer would be of small benefit,”
Klein answered. “Getting a start upon the stage depends on the
individual.”
In the automobile Klein was separated from Miss Reed—a condition of
affairs that brought no regret—and found Helen Lydecker a delightful
substitute.
From her he learned that these Saturday-night dances at her home were
regular throughout the season, and that the members of the Hudson Stock
Company were always honored guests.
“You see,” she hastened to explain, “I discovered there were no
rehearsals on Sunday mornings, so that made it possible for you of the
company to remain up a little later on Saturday nights. Oh, I have taken
a great interest in theatricals. Father, you know, owns the house in
which the company is playing.”
“Your friend, Miss Reed, is also interested in the profession, isn’t
she?” Klein returned. They both laughed.
“Miss Reed imagines she has had a great sorrow in her life,” Miss
Lydecker said. “It was a love affair, of course.”
“And so she turns to the stage for solace, I suppose.”
“That must be it.”
The three big automobiles had deserted the city streets, and were
spinning swiftly along the hard dirt road. Suddenly they swerved and
began climbing a slope.
“Our home is quite a distance from the town,” Miss Lydecker remarked, as
the machines glided between high iron gates and came to a stop before a
big white house. “But it makes it all the more enjoyable.”
Klein helped her out of the motor car. The others, laughing and
chattering, hurried indoors. Miss Lydecker motioned him to the far end
of the long porch.
“Look!” She stretched out a hand. “Isn’t that wonderful? I often sit
here for hours.”
Far below, in the soft, white moonlight, spread the great Atlantic. The
booming of the surf came faintly to Klein’s ears; the humid tang of salt
air crept to his nostrils and misted against his cheeks.
“It is wonderful,” he murmured. Then, after a pause, he added: “This is
my first real glimpse of the Atlantic.”
“You’re from inland, then?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. California claims me. I belong to that sect of
egotists known as Native Sons. We are not supposed to hear, feel, or
see, once we have stepped across our State line. Naturally, under these
conditions, I am of the opinion that there is no ocean except the
Pacific.”
The girl smiled and tossed her head. “Will you always hold that opinion,
Mr. Klein?”
“I don’t know,” he reluctantly confessed. “I—I believe I am already
weakening.”
From one end of the porch ran a narrow footbridge, spanning the lower
lawn and ending at a high cliff. Miss Lydecker, noticing Klein’s
interest in this, hastened to explain.
“Daddy has built a summerhouse on the very edge of that cliff. Would you
care to go out? We call it Eagle’s Nest.”
They ventured out, the girl leading the way. Reaching the cliff, the two
stood for a minute in silence, gazing down upon the sea. Only a narrow
rail, breast-high, was between them and a sheer drop of a hundred feet.
“Don’t lean too far over the rail,” the girl warned him, half jesting.
“One of our men fell here a few years ago.” She shuddered. “I wouldn’t
come near the Nest for months afterward.”
Suddenly, above the steady throb of the surf, there came the first
sounds of a distant orchestra.
“There!” exclaimed Miss Lydecker; “the first dance! And we’re missing
it.”
They ran along the footbridge and across the broad porch toward the big
door. Just as they were about to enter, Miss Lydecker stopped short, and
a cry came from her lips.
“What is the matter?” Klein asked anxiously.
“Right there!” She pointed a finger.
“What?”
“A man! I saw him slipping along—near those bushes!”
Without another word Klein leaped from the porch and gained the high
hedge that ran parallel to the pebbled roadway. He searched both sides
for a dozen yards, finally giving up the hunt and rejoining the girl.
“It must have been a ghost,” he told her laughingly.
“I certainly saw some one,” she answered nervously. Then her brow
cleared. “How foolish of me! Let’s not waste any more time. The first
dance will be over before we get on the floor.”