"But you laughed in a room by yourself," gloomily insisted Stivers, who would not be comforted, and removed the tray rather sullenly.
And Sybil laughed again and yet again, for she could not know that there was hurry and confusion at the old White house; that at the little Riverdale station, crouching at the foot of the hill beside the swift-running river, the quick tic-tic-tacking, and dot-dot-dot dashing were spelling out words of sorrow for her. But, later, as she rose from the piano and went to the window to look out, a messenger boy on the steps reached far over and stole a flower from her balcony before he rang the bell; and she laughed again, because he so nearly landed on his head in his effort to reach the blossom.
She always remembered, with a sick misery, that she was laughing when she opened the telegram that said: "Your mother has died in her sleep. Discovered an hour ago. Dorothy must not know. Come. Father."
She never remembered how she was made ready for the street. She seemed to recover her consciousness only as she found herself going into the theatre by the back way, and she wondered vaguely why she had not gone in the front. With the telegram crushed in her ungloved hand she had flown instantly to Stewart—in the first place, from the blind instinct that sends the stricken into the arms of the loved one for shelter, for comfort; and now, in the second place, she sought him for business reasons, so that he might have all the time possible in which to arrange matters theatrical during her necessary absence.
She made her hurried way to Thrall's private office—that little red-walled room, where she had first met him, and where her own picture as Juliet now reigned supreme.
An old cloth had been spread over the open desk, and on it lay a litter of oily rags, bits of wire, polishing powder, loose cartridges, several revolvers, a tiny pistol used by stage heroines, and Sybil's beautiful dagger.
Jim Roberts, pallid, puffy-eyed, and trembling visibly, sat there at work, and Thrall, seeing the great trickling drops of perspiration which the slightest effort brought out upon his pasty skin, said: "Jim, either you must give that job up for to-day or you must take a nip to steady your nerves. You can't break short off after being on the rampage as you were yesterday."
But Jim lifted miserable eyes, and said, doggedly: "No! She—the Princess—might come in, and notice—" (He had not forgotten that remark about his fondness for cloves.)
"She's not at all likely to come in to-day, and if she did, she would only feel sorry for your recklessness." He turned, and, taking a handsome travelling-flask from a shelf, shook it, and smilingly announced: "Half full yet." He poured a pretty stiff drink into a glass, brought it to Jim, and, pointing to water standing on top of the desk, said: "There you are, old man—racer—chaser—everything to your hand, and, for heaven's sake, wipe your dripping face!"
Jim swallowed his liquor and resumed his work, asking, querulously: "Where is that chamois skin? I've hunted that infernal thing till my head is all a-buzz."