Mr. Marx's Secret

  CHAPTER XVII. BEHIND THE SCENES AT THE TORCHESTER THEATRE.

  I followed my guide to the end of the corridor, through a door which heunlocked and carefully locked again, and past the side of the desertedstage, on which I paused for a moment to gaze with wonder at the array ofropes and pulleys and runners which the carpenters were busy putting torights, and at the canvas-covered, unlit auditorium, which lookednow--strange transformation--like the mouth of some dark cavern. Afterpicking our way carefully, we reached a door on which was painted"Manager's Room." A voice from inside bade us enter and I was ushered in.

  Mr. Marx was seated in an easy-chair, talking somewhat earnestly to aslim, dark young man, who was leaning against the mantelpiece. An olderman was writing at a table at the other end of the room, with his back tothe door.

  Mr. Marx welcomed me with a nod, and introduced me briefly to the youngman by his side:

  "Mr. Morton--Mr. Isaacs. Mr. Isaacs is the manager of the company who areplaying here."

  Mr. Isaacs turned an unmistakably Jewish face towards me and extended hishand.

  "Glad to meet you, Mr. Morton! Hope you liked the performance," he said,with a smile, which disclosed the whole of a very white set of teeth."Very fair, wasn't it? Ha, ha, ha!"

  I replied that I had enjoyed it exceedingly, and looked at Mr. Marx,wondering how long he meant to stay. I had taken a sudden but strongdislike to Mr. Isaacs.

  "Shall you be very long, Mr. Marx?" I asked.

  "I have sent for the carriage," he answered; "it will be here in tenminutes."

  It seemed to me that there was something a little strange in Mr. Marx'smanner and the way in which he kept glancing towards the door.

  Just at that moment someone knocked at the door.

  "Come in!" cried Mr. Isaacs.

  A lady obeyed his summons and swept into the room with a most unnecessaryrustling of silk skirts. Mr. Isaacs welcomed her effusively.

  "Miss Fay, your most humble servant!" he exclaimed, bowing low. "Let meintroduce two of my friends, Mr. Morton and Mr. Marx."

  The lady put out her ungloved hand, covered with a profusion of rings.

  "I know this young gentleman by sight," she said, in a loud and ratherhigh-pitched tone. "You threw me those lovely flowers, didn't you? Sogood of you--awfully good! I've sent them home by my young woman."

  I stammered out some incoherent response and heartily wished myself ahundred miles away. What a disenchantment it was! I looked at her thicklypencilled eyebrows, at the smeared powder and paint which lay thick uponher face: at her bold, staring eyes, the crow's-feet underneath, whichart had done what it could to conceal and failed; at the masses of yellowhair, which intuitively I knew to be false, and I felt my cheeks burnwith shame that I should have been tricked into admiring her for amoment. Unfortunately, she put down my embarrassment to another cause,for it seemed partly to gratify, partly to amuse her.

  "My young friend and I admired your performance equally, Miss Fay,although, perhaps, he was the more demonstrative," said Mr. Marx, comingforward. "Will you accept the congratulations and thanks of a provincialwho seldom has the pleasure of seeing such acting or hearing such avoice?"

  She thanked him with an affected little laugh, which suddenly died awayand she looked into his face intently.

  "Haven't we met before?" she asked curiously. "There is something aboutyour face or voice which seems familiar to me."

  He returned her gaze steadily, but shook his head with a slight smile.

  "I am afraid I may not claim that honour," he said. "If we had therecould not possibly have been any uncertainty in my mind about it. Itwould have been a treasured memory."

  She looked doubtful, but turned away carelessly.

  "I suppose it is my mistake, then," she remarked. "You certainly seem toremind me of someone whom I have known. Fancy, perhaps. Mr. Isaacs, Icame to beg for your escort home." (Here she shot a quick glance at me,which made my cheeks hot again.) "I have sent Julia on, and I can't goalone, can I, Mr. Morton?" she asked, turning to me.

  "I--I suppose not," I answered, devoutly wishing that Mr. Marx would takehis departure. But, as though on purpose, he had gone to the other end ofthe room and had his back turned towards me.

  There was a brief silence. Mr. Isaacs glanced at me, whistled softly tohimself, and then strolled slowly over to the window, as though to seewhat sort of a night it was. Miss Fay glanced at me impatiently, with aslight contraction in her eyebrows. I longed desperately to get away, butfor the life of me could think of no excuse.

  "You won't offer your escort, then, Mr. Morton?" she whispered.

  "I can't. I don't know the town--never was here before--and we have atwelve-mile drive before us. We are expecting the carriage every moment.Ah, there it is!" I added, with a sudden sense of relief, as I heard thesound of horses' feet stamping and pawing outside and the jingling ofharness. "Mr. Marx, Burdett has come!" I called out.

  He looked up, frowning.

  "All right; there's no hurry!" he said. "If you're not ready, pray don'tstudy me. I should enjoy a cigar and a brandy-and-soda down at the 'Bell'before we start."

  "I'm quite ready, thanks," I answered slowly, for his words and mannerhad given me something to think about. "If you don't mind, I should liketo be getting away. It's a long way, you know."

  "Oh, pray don't let me detain you!" Miss Fay exclaimed, tossing her head."Mr. Isaacs, if you're ready, I am. Good-night, Mr. Marx; good-night, Mr.Morton!"

  She drew me a little on one side--a manoeuvre which I was powerless toprevent--and whispered in my ear:

  "You shy, stupid boy! There!"

  She shook hands with me again and left something in my palm. When theywere gone and I was in the passage, I looked at it. It was a plain cardand on it was hastily scribbled an address:

  Miss Mabel Fay, 15, Queen Street.

  I felt my cheeks flush as I tore it into pieces and flung them on theground. Then I followed Mr. Marx out to the carriage and, leaning backamong the cushions by his side, I began seriously to consider an ideawhich every trifling incident during the latter part of the evening hadpointed to; Mr. Marx had deliberately tried to lead me into making a foolof myself with Miss Mabel Fay. Why?