Filling his pipe from the receptacle indicated, which lay among old costumes and wigs, the soldier seated himself near an open window that looked out upon a balcony. Through a door at the far end of the balcony a light streamed from a chandelier within, playing upon the balustrade. Once the figure of the young actress stepped for a moment out upon the balcony; she leaned upon the balustrade, looked across the city, breathed the perfume of the flowers, and then quickly vanished.
“Can you spare me a little time to-morrow morning––early––before rehearsal?” said Saint-Prosper, finally.
“Yes,” returned the manager, in surprise. “What is it?”
“A foolish piece of business! The patroon is in New Orleans.”
Barnes uttered an exclamation of annoyance and apprehension. “Here! What is he doing here?” he said. “I thought we had seen the last of him. Has he followed––Constance?”
“I don’t know. We met yesterday at the races.”
“It is strange she did not tell me about it,” remarked the manager, without endeavoring to conceal the anxiety this unexpected information afforded him.
“She does not know he is here.” And Saint-Prosper briefly related the circumstances of his meeting with the land baron, to which the manager listened attentively.
“And so she must be dragged into it?” exclaimed Barnes at length, resentfully. “Her name must become public property in a broil?”