"That's right—that's right!" fluttered the father, eagerly catching at Frank's words. "It was the whisky did it! Why, I wouldn't strike my girl—my poor little girl! It was the cursed whisky did it!"
Cassie had not stirred; she still lay face downward, curled in a position of pain. She did not seem to breathe.
"She's badly hurt!" said the leading lady, bending over the little soubrette. "Somebody bring water. She's fainted!"
Outside the door of the dressing room there was a shout.
"What's this? Cassie hurt? Back—let me in! Get away!"
Roscoe Havener tore a way through to the door and came panting into the room. In a moment he was kneeling on the floor, and had gathered the little soubrette in his arms. Her head hung back, the blonde wig falling off and showing her black hair beneath. Her eyes, lined along the lashes with a black pencil, were closed. The paint on her cheeks hid the pallor of her face, but she looked ghastly even then.
A great groan broke from Havener's heart.
"She is dead," he cried. "Oh, my darling—my own little sweetheart!"
Old Dan stared at them with red eyes.
"Eh?" grunted the old man. "What's that. What'd he call her? He ain't no right to——"