After the dancer had started on her long journey to “Jim and the baby,” Giles Gaylord dropped into the Stickney kitchen.
“Lucky the theater folks knew her home address, or we’d have been in a fix. Kitty Blue—how strange that she should have the same—”
“What!” interrupted Mrs. Stickney, “her name Blue?”
“Yes. Didn’t I tell you?”
She shook her head absently. “Blue!—Jim Blue!” she murmured. Then she darted across to the trunk in the corner. “This has got to come open!” she exclaimed decidedly, stooping once again to try the key. “Blue, bring me the oil bottle, will you? I’ll put on a little more.”
Footsteps in the hall were followed by a knock. Mr. Gaylord opened the door. As Mrs. Stickney was inquired for, he passed out at once.
“I am Mr. Somerby, Edgar Somerby of the People’s Theater,” was the suave introduction, and Blue’s mother found herself facing a well-dressed, smooth-mannered stranger, whose glittering eyes ranged the room even while he was speaking.
“I have called to thank you for your kindness to our late comrade,” he began effusively. “We all appreciate it more than I can express. Unfortunately I was out of town while Mrs. Blue was ill, and so did not know when she—er—passed away. I just heard of it, not an hour ago, coming in on the train.” He had taken the chair offered him, and was leaning back comfortably. “This is a very sad affair. We all feel Mrs. Blue’s death deeply. I was shocked at the news. We were great chums, Kit and I. In fact,” he lowered his voice confidentially, “I fully expected to marry her some day—it has broken me all up! She was a wonderful dancer! Ever see her pirouette? No? Too bad! She was bound to be famous if she’d ’a’ lived. She’d been at it since she was eight years old. Her mother was a ballerina of some little reputation, I believe. Too bad Kit had to die! Her toe-dancing was simply marvelous! And to think I shall see it no more!” He sat for a moment regarding the diamond on his finger. Then, with a sigh, he asked languidly, “Did she leave any effects effects—er—anything in the way of musical instruments, do you know?”
“I have seen none,” was the quiet answer.
The man scowled. “She told me not long ago,” he resumed, “about a fiddle she had—I think it belonged to her husband. She said it wasn’t—er—valuable at all, but in case—er—anything happened to her, she wanted me to have it, simply as a memento. So you don’t know what became of it when her room was cleaned out?” His sharp little eyes seemed endeavoring to pierce those which faced him placidly.