Chapter fifteen
The opening preliminary was already under way when the Saint, with Hoppy and Patricia Holm, strode through the tag-end of the crowd of street urchins who eddied about the “artists’ ” entrance of the Manhattan Arena.
Whitey met them in the doorway.
“I was gettin’ worried,” he said anxiously. “What happened to ya? The show’s started.”
He started them down the corridor that turned off to the dressing-room section. The Saint stopped him.
“Whitey, will you show Miss Holm to her seat? I don’t think she can find her way up front from this part of the Arena.”
The tempting curve of Miss Holm’s red mouth drew to a pout.
“You mean I’ve got to spend the next hour or so in solitary refinement?”
“Well, you certainly can’t spend it in my dressing-room,” said the Saint. “It’s not exactly a ladies’ boudoir.”
Whitey nodded to Patricia, in visible awe of her golden-blonde beauty.