“I was in search of Mr. and Mrs. Daly,” said Conn. “Can you tell me if they still live here?”
“They still live here,” replied the woman, “but they went to New York early this morning to visit some friends, and will not be back until tomorrow.”
Thanking the woman for this information Conn turned away, and with aimless steps walked down the street. He passed a theatre, resplendent with light, and joined the throng of gayly-dressed pleasure-seekers, filing into the building. He asked for a ticket at the box-office, but was told that all reserved seats had been taken, and that only gallery tickets were procurable.
“That will do,” he said, and, taking the bit of pasteboard entitling him to a seat, passed up the long, winding stairs to the gallery, and took a position in the front row of seats.
It was a remarkable coincidence that Miss Nettie Morgan had accepted an invitation to visit the same theatre that evening. Mr. George St. Clair Fitzherbert, a young gentleman of elegant leisure, considerable wealth and few brains—nevertheless aristocratically connected, and therefore a welcome visitor at the Morgan mansion—had purchased two orchestra seats in the most eligible locality, and invited Miss Nettie to do him the honor of sharing one of them. Now Nettie failed to have a very high regard for George St. Clair Fitzherbert’s aristocratic connections, leisurely habits, wealth, etc.; in fact she had been known to call him a “conceited booby,” but Miss Nettie was fond of the theatre; she very much desired to see the “Two Orphans,” and therefore did the young scion of aristocracy “the honor.”
The interval before the appearance of the orchestra was devoted by Conn to a careful survey of the theatre and the audience. Just as the overture began Miss Nettie and her aristocratic escort entered, and the former was immediately recognized by Conn. Instantly all interest in the play was lost. He had eyes and thoughts only for Nettie Morgan. If one had asked Conn the next day the simplest question about the play, it is doubtful if he could have answered it. Miss Nettie, unconscious of this idolatrous adorer’s silent, soul-enraptured worship, gave all her sympathies to the troubles and heart-griefs of the “Two Orphans.” More than once tears sprang to her eyes at the pathetic situations.
The Cry of Fire.
The curtain was rung up on the last scene of the last act. It was the hut of the Frochards on the bank of the river Seine. It discovered the blind girl Louise on her pallet of straw, over whom was bending Pierre Frochard. Suddenly the actors heard whispers of “Fire, fire,” and a shuffling to and fro behind the scenery. Mr. Murdoch, who was playing Pierre, also heard the alarm, and Miss Claxton (Louise) whispered to him:
“The stage is on fire!”
The play went on, Louise and Pierre continuing to recite their parts. When Mrs. Farren, as Pierre’s mother, rushed in and, as the action of the play demanded, seized Louise by the hair and pulled her head violently backward, Miss Claxton’s eyes were turned upward, and then she saw little tongues of flame playing over her head and licking up the flies at the top of the scenes. There were now four persons on the stage: Miss Claxton, Mrs. Farren, J. B. Studley and H. S. Murdoch.