The look of the man at the window accused him of being mildly insane. “Zaza’s Zaza” he observed, as he turned to his accounts.
“Naturally,” Pape replied. “But why not’s not always why. What I want to ask you is——”
“Leslie Carter play of same name set to music—not jazz—by French composer. House is packed to the roof to-night, as I’ve been trying to tell you from the start.”
Before Pape could offer other insistence he felt himself displaced before the window by a personage disguised in ornate livery.
“Mrs. Blackstone can’t attend. Sudden death,” said the personage. “She’d be obliged if you could sell these tickets and credit her account.”
“It is not Mrs. Blackstone herself who died?” was the official’s cold query.
“Indeed, no. She knows it’s late, sir, but she’d be obliged if you——”
“I’ll oblige her if the money changer won’t,” Pape interrupted. “I’ll take a ticket.”
The autocrat of the box office, however, shook his head. “Mrs. B’s box is grand tier. Can’t be split. Six chairs.”
From what so far had seemed a mere human huddle within one of the entrance doors, an eager figure hurried, just behind an eager voice.