He found himself talking to empty air. Merriwell rushed through the wings, flung himself down the short flight of stairs, and burst out into the street.
The boy was right. A cab was drawn up close to the curb, into which two men were trying to force Marion Gray. The girl was struggling desperately, and trying to drag away the hand of one of them, which was pressed close against her mouth to prevent her crying out.
Like a panther, Merriwell sprang at them. With a grip of iron he seized the collar of one, and tore him away from the girl, planting a smashing blow on his face as he did so. The next minute the other was stretched on the ground, and Marion was free.
The Yale man would like to have stayed to complete the job, but he knew that there was not a moment to lose. They must get back to the stage. Half lifting, half supporting the girl, who was sobbing hysterically, he carried her through the stage door, back to the wings.
“It’s all right,” he soothed. “You must brace up, Marion. You’ve got to think of the play. We’ll have to go on in a minute.”
She caught her breath, and brought all her will to bear to calm herself.
“You’re right,” she faltered. “I mustn’t fail. That’s what he wanted to carry me off for—to spoil the play.”
“It was Bryton, I suppose?” Dick questioned.
“Yes.”
She put her hand up, and mechanically smoothed her hair. As she did so, Dick heard their cue to enter.