“You permit me?” he murmured, breaking the seal.
Violet shrugged her shoulders, ever so slightly. Her husband was already absorbed in the few lines hastily scrawled across the sheet of notepaper which he held in his hand.
MONSIEUR LE BARON DE GHOST.
Dear Monsieur le Baron,
4 Come to my dressing-room, without 4
fail, as soon as you receive this.
SOPHIE CELAIRE.
Violet looked over his shoulder.
“The hussy!” she exclaimed, indignantly. Her husband raised his eyebrows. With his forefinger he merely tapped the two numerals.
“The Double-Four!” she gasped.
He looked around and nodded. The commissionaire was waiting. Peter took up his silk hat from under the seat.
“If I am detained, dear,” he whispered, “you’ll make the best of it, won’t you? The car will be here and Frederick will be looking out for you.”
“Of course,” she answered, cheerfully. “I shall be quite all right.”
She nodded brightly and Peter took his departure. He passed through a door on which was painted “Private,” and through a maze of scenery and stage hands and ballet ladies by a devious route to the region of the dressing-rooms. His guide conducted him to the door of one of these and knocked.