“Mr. Sanderson,” said Mignon, liquidly, “how can I get out through that door?”
Sanderson considered and suggested opening it.
“But it's locked! Ciel! It's locked!”
Sanderson considered again. “Here's a key,” he said hopefully.
“There!” shouted the plush vest. “I knew there'd be some solution. You see, mademoiselle, what Ave admire in Sanderson is his readiness of resource. Mademoiselle refused to melt down the fence with a smile or climb over it on a high C, and we were quite in despair.”
Outside the gate, in the paved courtyard between the theatre and the hotel, Mignon lifted her big brown eyes which said so many things, according to Cassidy, that were not so, and observed demurely, “If you were to leave me that key, Mr. Sanderson, well, I should steal in here after the performance tonight and ride away on the little red mare, certainly.”
Sanderson gravely held out the key, but Mignon drew back in sudden alarm and clasped her hands tragically.
“Oh, no! You would be on guard and, what! cut up? Yes. Ah, dreadfully! You are so wise, Mr. Sanderson, and secret.”
And Jack Mavering, following slowly after, chuckled sepulchrally to himself. “Pretty cool try sting. Peace to the shades of Manager Scott. I couldn't have done it better myself.”
The Fair Grounds were as dark and lonely at eleven o'clock as if the lighted street were not three hundred feet away with its gossipy multitude going up and down seeking some new thing. The stands yawned indifferently from a thousand vacant seats and the race-track had forgotten its excitement. Horses stamped and rustled spectrally in their stalls. The shadow under the maples was abysmal and the abyss gave forth a murmur of dialogue, the sound of a silken voice.