Alas, poor Fillmore! He stood in the middle of the stage with thelightning of Mr. Bunbury's wrath playing about his defenceless head, andSally, recovering from her first astonishment, sent a wave of sisterlycommiseration floating across the theatre to him. She did not often pityFillmore. His was a nature which in the sunshine of prosperity had atendency to grow a trifle lush; and such of the minor ills of life ashad afflicted him during the past three years, had, she considered,been wholesome and educative and a matter not for concern but forcongratulation. Unmoved, she had watched him through that lean periodlunching on coffee and buckwheat cakes, and curbing from motives ofeconomy a somewhat florid taste in dress. But this was different. Thiswas tragedy. Somehow or other, blasting disaster must have smitten theFillmore bank-roll, and he was back where he had started. His presencehere this morning could mean nothing else.
She recalled his words at the breakfast-table about financing theplay. How like Fillmore to try to save his face for the moment with anoutrageous bluff, though well aware that he would have to reveal thetruth sooner or later. She realized how he must have felt when he hadseen her at the hotel. Yes, she was sorry for Fillmore.
And, as she listened to the fervent eloquence of Mr. Bunbury, sheperceived that she had every reason to be. Fillmore was having a badtime. One of the chief articles of faith in the creed of all theatricalproducers is that if anything goes wrong it must be the fault of theassistant stage manager and Mr. Bunbury was evidently orthodox in hisviews. He was showing oratorical gifts of no mean order. The paper-knifeseemed to inspire him. Gradually, Sally began to get the feeling thatthis harmless, necessary stage-property was the source from whichsprang most, if not all, of the trouble in the world. It had disappearedbefore. Now it had disappeared again. Could Mr. Bunbury go on strugglingin a universe where this sort of thing happened? He seemed to doubt it.Being a red-blooded, one-hundred-per-cent American man, he would tryhard, but it was a hundred to one shot that he would get through. Hehad asked for a paper-knife. There was no paper-knife. Why was there nopaper-knife? Where was the paper-knife anyway?
"I assure you, Mr. Bunbury," bleated the unhappy Fillmore, obsequiously."I placed it with the rest of the properties after the last rehearsal."
"You couldn't have done."
"I assure you I did."
"And it walked away, I suppose," said Miss Hobson with cold scorn,pausing in the operation of brightening up her lower lip with alip-stick.
A calm, clear voice spoke.
"It was taken away," said the calm, clear voice.
Miss Winch had added herself to the symposium. She stood besideFillmore, chewing placidly. It took more than raised voices andgesticulating hands to disturb Miss Winch.
"Miss Hobson took it," she went on in her cosy, drawling voice. "I sawher."
Sensation in court. The prisoner, who seemed to feel his positiondeeply, cast a pop-eyed glance full of gratitude at his advocate.Mr. Bunbury, in his capacity of prosecuting attorney, ran his fingersthrough his hair in some embarrassment, for he was regretting now thathe had made such a fuss. Miss Hobson thus assailed by an underling,spun round and dropped the lip-stick, which was neatly retrieved by theassiduous Mr. Cracknell. Mr. Cracknell had his limitations, but he wasrather good at picking up lip-sticks.
"What's that? I took it? I never did anything of the sort."
"Miss Hobson took it after the rehearsal yesterday," drawled GladysWinch, addressing the world in general, "and threw it negligently at thetheatre cat."
Miss Hobson seemed taken aback. Her composure was not restored by Mr.Bunbury's next remark. The producer, like his company, had been feelingthe strain of the past few days, and, though as a rule he avoidedanything in the nature of a clash with the temperamental star, thismatter of the missing paper-knife had bitten so deeply into his soulthat he felt compelled to speak his mind.
"In future, Miss Hobson, I should be glad if, when you wish to throwanything at the cat, you would not select a missile from the propertybox. Good heavens!" he cried, stung by the way fate was maltreatinghim, "I have never experienced anything like this before. I havebeen producing plays all my life, and this is the first time this hashappened. I have produced Nazimova. Nazimova never threw paper-knives atcats."
"Well, I hate cats," said Miss Hobson, as though that settled it.
"I," murmured Miss Winch, "love little pussy, her fur is so warm, and ifI don't hurt her she'll do me no..."
"Oh, my heavens!" shouted Gerald Foster, bounding from his seat and forthe first time taking a share in the debate. "Are we going to spend thewhole day arguing about cats and paper-knives? For goodness' sake, clearthe stage and stop wasting time."
Miss Hobson chose to regard this intervention as an affront.
"Don't shout at me, Mr. Foster!"
"I wasn't shouting at you."
"If you have anything to say to me, lower your voice."
"He can't," observed Miss Winch. "He's a tenor."
"Nazimova never..." began Mr. Bunbury.
Miss Hobson was not to be diverted from her theme by reminiscences ofNazimova. She had not finished dealing with Gerald.
"In the shows I've been in," she said, mordantly, "the author wasn'tallowed to go about the place getting fresh with the leading lady. Inthe shows I've been in the author sat at the back and spoke when he wasspoken to. In the shows I've been in..."
Sally was tingling all over. This reminded her of the dog-fight on theRoville sands. She wanted to be in it, and only the recognition that itwas a private fight and that she would be intruding kept her silent. Thelure of the fray, however, was too strong for her wholly to resist it.Almost unconsciously, she had risen from her place and drifted down theaisle so as to be nearer the white-hot centre of things. She was nowstanding in the lighted space by the orchestra-pit, and her presenceattracted the roving attention of Miss Hobson, who, having concluded herremarks on authors and their legitimate sphere of activity, was lookingabout for some other object of attack.
"Who the devil," inquired Miss Hobson, "is that?"
Sally found herself an object of universal scrutiny and wished that shehad remained in the obscurity of the back rows.
"I am Mr. Nicholas' sister," was the best method of identification thatshe could find.
"Who's Mr. Nicholas?"
Fillmore timidly admitted that he was Mr. Nicholas. He did it in themanner of one in the dock pleading guilty to a major charge, andat least half of those present seemed surprised. To them, till now,Fillmore had been a nameless thing, answering to the shout of "Hi!"
Miss Hobson received the information with a laugh of such exceedingbitterness that strong men blanched and Mr. Cracknell started soconvulsively that he nearly jerked his collar off its stud.
"Now, sweetie!" urged Mr. Cracknell.
Miss Hobson said that Mr. Cracknell gave her a pain in the gizzard. Sherecommended his fading away, and he did so--into his collar. He seemedto feel that once well inside his collar he was "home" and safe fromattack.
"I'm through!" announced Miss Hobson. It appeared that Sally's presencehad in some mysterious fashion fulfilled the function of the last straw."This is the by-Goddest show I was ever in! I can stand for a whole lot,but when it comes to the assistant stage manager being allowed to fillthe theatre with his sisters and his cousins and his aunts it's time toquit."
"But, sweetie!" pleaded Mr. Cracknell, coming to the surface.
"Oh, go and choke yourself!" said Miss Hobson, crisply. And, swinginground like a blue panther, she strode off. A door banged, and the soundof it seemed to restore Mr. Cracknell's power of movement. He, too, shotup stage and disappeared.
"Hello, Sally," said Elsa Doland, looking up from her magazine. Thebattle, raging all round her, had failed to disturb her detachment."When did you get back?"
Sally trotted up the steps which had been propped against the stage toform a bridge over the orchestra pit.
"Hello, Elsa."
The late debaters had split into groups. Mr. Bunbury and
Gerald werepacing up and down the central aisle, talking earnestly. Fillmore hadsubsided into a chair.
"Do you know Gladys Winch?" asked Elsa.
Sally shook hands with the placid lodestar of her brother's affections.Miss Winch, on closer inspection, proved to have deep grey eyes andfreckles. Sally's liking for her increased.
"Thank you for saving Fillmore from the wolves," she said. "They wouldhave torn him in pieces but for you."
"Oh, I don't know," said Miss Winch.
"It was noble."
"Oh, well!"
"I think," said Sally, "I'll go and have a talk with Fillmore. He looksas though he wanted consoling."
She made her way to that picturesque ruin.
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