"Oh, Lord! It's old man Demry," exclaimed Birdie in exasperation. "He plays in the orchestra. Full of dope half of the time. Why don't Mac come on and leave him?"
But the old musician was not to be left. He pushed past Mac and, staggering down the steps, laid his hand on Nance's arm.
"You must come home with me, Nancy," he urged unsteadily. "I want to talk to you. Want to tell you something."
"See here!" broke in Mac Clarke, peremptorily, "is this young lady your daughter?"
Mr. Demry put his hand to his dazed head and looked from one to the other in troubled uncertainty.
"No," he said incoherently. "I had a daughter once. But she is much older than this child. She must be nearly forty by now, and to think I haven't seen her face for twenty-two years. I shouldn't even know her if I should see her. I couldn't make shipwreck of her life, you know—shipwreck of one you love best in the world!"
"Oh, come ahead!" called Birdie from below. "He don't know what he's babbling about."
But the old man's wrinkled hand still clung to Nance's arm. "Don't go with them!" he implored. "I know. I've seen. Ten years playing for girls to dance. Stage no place for you, Nancy. Come home with me, child. Come!" He was trembling with earnestness and his voice quavered.
"Let go of her arm, you old fool!" cried Mac, angrily. "It's none of your business where she goes!"
"Nor of yours, either!" Nance flashed back instantly. "You keep your hands off him!"