Rehearsal being over, Sybil had sent old Margaret home in the carriage that Thrall had hired for them, and had herself turned downtown a few blocks, and had then gone across to a little shop, where stage shoes were to be tried on.
"I'm afraid Mrs. Van Camp will be angry if I leave you, Miss Sybil," the woman had protested. "There's an awful storm coming up, too!"
"Nonsense!" said the girl, who even then had to hold her hat on with both hands, so high was the wind. "Go on, god-mother needs you at once! I'll be home in no time, but I can't leave those shoes another day. Suppose they should be wrong in some way? By-by!" and, laughing, she faced the tearing wind.
Coming from the shop she felt the rain begin to fall. She fairly flew along the streets. Two cars passed without heeding her signal. What should she do? The theatre? She had a right to seek shelter there, surely, and that way she rushed. A sign came hurling through the air! She screamed, and the next moment dashed, damp, chill, dishevelled, into the vestibule.
At the bang of the great door young Barney, pale under the box-office gas-light, raised his head and looked through the little window, trying to see who was outside, but the darkness was almost that of night, and Sybil, catching her breath in gasps, said: "I beg your pardon, Mr. Barney, I—I have just run in here for shelter—it's awful outside! Don't you know me? I'm Miss—Miss—" She stopped, in confusion. A tall man was stooping to peer out over Barney's shoulder. Those well-shaped, amazingly brilliant eyes were unmistakable. Then a voice of incredulity, of pleased incredulity, was saying: "It's not Miss Lawton, alone in this fearful storm, surely?"
The door was pulled open, and through the out-streaming light came Stewart Thrall. His overcoat over one arm, and a closely furled umbrella in the hand, whose finger and thumb also held an unlit cigar, told plainly that he was just leaving, that had she been one single moment later she would have found only Barney in the theatre.
Only one moment, but, oh, there are single moments full, replete, and pregnant with possibilities—moments that may bring forth results dire and strange! William Henry Bulkley's one moment had been sufficient for the mad runaway of the big chestnut, and things more terrible than horses may fiercely break away from all restraint in equally brief time.
But Sybil, shaken, breathless, and embarrassed in the dusk, made, unconsciously, a mental, never-to-be-forgotten portrait of Stewart Thrall standing in that informing stream of light—handsome, debonair, stately of height, and graceful of bearing, and on his face that eager look that made it strangely young.
He held his hand out: "Miss Lawton, is it really you? Why—good heaven, you are wet and cold!" The wind rattled windows, doors, and signs so that she could scarcely hear his words; but the warm pressure of his clasping hand was comforting to her. "Where is your carriage? eh? I can't hear you!"
Something, probably a billboard, fell with a crash against the door, and the girl gave a violent start of terror. Suddenly Thrall turned, still holding her hand fast. He cast his coat, umbrella, and cigar into the office, saying sharply to Barney: "I'm not here—to anyone! You understand?"