Then he went and I heard him walk down the corridor.
An hour passed and he did not return. The last act came, the curtain fell and, with a sigh of regret, I rose to go. Still he had not come back.
I put on my coat and lingered about, uncertain what to do. Then there came a knock at the box-door, but, instead of Mr. Marx, an attendant entered, and handed me a note. I tore it open and read, hastily scrawled in pencil:
“I am round at the back of the house. Come to me. The bearer will show you the way.—M.”
CHAPTER XVII.
BEHIND THE SCENES AT THE TORCHESTER THEATRE.
I followed my guide to the end of the corridor, through a door which he unlocked and carefully locked again, and past the side of the deserted stage, on which I paused for a moment to gaze with wonder at the array of ropes and pulleys and runners which the carpenters were busy putting to rights, and at the canvas-covered, unlit auditorium, which looked now—strange transformation—like the mouth of some dark cavern. After picking our way carefully, we reached a door on which was painted “Manager’s Room.” A voice from inside bade us enter and I was ushered in.
Mr. Marx was seated in an easy-chair, talking somewhat earnestly to a slim, dark young man, who was leaning against the mantelpiece. An older man was writing at a table at the other end of the room, with his back to the door.
Mr. Marx welcomed me with a nod, and introduced me briefly to the young man by his side:
“Mr. Morton—Mr. Isaacs. Mr. Isaacs is the manager of the company who are playing here.”
Mr. Isaacs turned an unmistakably Jewish face towards me and extended his hand.