De Medici looked at him uncomfortably.
“Miss Ballau had to leave,” went on Cort.
“Leave! What do you mean?”
Cort swore softly.
“We’ve had a time of it for the last fifteen minutes. Miss Ballau got a telephone call at the end of the second act. It knocked her out. Refused to go on with the show. Said it was impossible. And we’ve gotten Fedya Gratin, the understudy, to finish the last act.”
De Medici listened in amazement.
“A telephone call,” he repeated. “Where did she go?”
“I don’t know,” growled Cort. “All I know is she left us in the devil of a mess ... and lit out of here like a streak, make-up on and everything. Wouldn’t stop to change or listen to reason....”
“Did she say anything?” De Medici interrupted.
The news had left him unaccountably sick at heart. He made an effort to remove the fears that were clouding his thought and to conjure up a logical reason—a calm reason—for her departure. He turned desperately to the manager, who had started to move off.