At the entrance of the restaurant the starter tooted his shrill whistle, and a driver began to crank his automobile in the waiting line of cars. According to the rules of the taxi stands he was next in order. But, as is frequently the custom in the hotly contested district of “good fares” another car “cut in” from across the street. This taxi swung quickly around and drew up before the waiting criminologist.
Grunting and mumbling, as though still deep in his cups, Monty allowed himself to be half pushed, half lifted into the car by the attendant. Helene followed him. “Winter Garden,” she directed, and the machine sped away, while the thwarted driver in the rear sent a volley of anathemas after his successful competitor.
Shirley scrutinized the interior of the machine, but there seemed nothing to distinguish it from the thousands of other piratical craft which pillage the public with the aid of the taximeter clock on the port beam! Soon they were at the big Broadway playhouse, where Shirley floundered out first, after the ungallant manner of many sere-and-yellow beaux. He swayed unsteadily, teetering on his cane, as Helene leaped lightly to the sidewalk beside him. The driver stood by the door of the car, leering at him.
“Here, keep the change,” and Shirley handed him a generous bill.
“Shall I wait fer ye, gov'nor? I ain't got no call to-night. I'll be around here all evening.”
The criminologist nodded, and the chauffeur handed Helene the carriage number check.
“Don't let 'em steal de old gink, inside, girlie. He's strong fer de chorus chickens.”
Helene shuddered before the hawk-like glare of his malevolent eyes, but in her part, she shook her head with a laugh, and followed airily after her escort.
“Good-evening, sir. Back again to-night, I see,” volunteered the ticket taker, to whom William Grimsby was a familiar visitant. Shirley reeled with steadied and studied equilibrium, into the foyer of the theatre, as he nodded. Their seats were purposely in the rear of a side box, well protected from the audience by the holders of the front positions. The criminologist appeared to relapse into dreams of bygone days, while his companion peered into the vast audience and then at the nimble limbed chorus on the stage with piquant curiosity.
“For years I wanted to see an American stage and an American audience,” she confided in an undertone, “and to think that when I do so, it is acting myself, on the other side of the footlights in a stranger, more dramatic part than any one else in the theatre. A curious world, isn't it?”