“I'm here!”
It was an odd, slender voice that spoke, just behind Talbot Potter, and he turned to stare at a little figure in black—she had come so quietly out of the shadows of the scenery into Miss Lyston's place that no one had noticed. She was indefinite of outline still, in the sparse light of that cavernous place; and, with a veil lifted just to the level of her brows, under a shadowing black hat, not much was to be clearly discerned of her except that she was small and pale and had bright eyes. But even the two words she spoke proved the peculiar quality of her voice: it was like the tremolo of a zither string; and at the sound of it the actors on each side of her instinctively moved a step back for a better view of her, while in his lurking place old Tinker let his dry lips open a little, which was as near as he ever came, nowadays, to a look of interest. He had noted that this voice, sweet as rain, and vibrant, but not loud, was the ordinary speaking voice of the understudy, and that her “I'm here,” had sounded, soft and clear, across the deep orchestra to the last row in the house.
“Of course!” Packer cried. “There she is, Mr. Potter! There's Miss—Miss—”
“Is her name 'Missmiss'?” the star demanded bitterly.
“No sir. I've forgotten it, just this moment, Mr. Potter, but I've got it. I've got it right here.” He began frantically to turn out the contents of his pockets. “It's in my memorandum book, if I could only find—”
“The devil, the devil!” shouted Potter. “A fine understudy you've got for us! She sees me standing here like—like a statue—delaying the whole rehearsal, while we wait for you to find her name, and she won't open her lips!” He swept the air with a furious gesture, and a subtle faint relief became manifest throughout the company at this token that the newcomer was indeed to fill Miss Lyston's place for one rehearsal at least. “Why don't you tell us your name?” he roared.
“I understood,” said the zither-sweet voice, “that I was never to speak to you unless you directly asked me a question. My—”
“My soul! Have you got a name?”
“Wanda Malone.”
Potter had never heard it until that moment, but his expression showed that he considered it another outrage.