“I know you, all right,” said the man, not unkindly. “I’d like to let you in, but—you see––” He coughed and looked about rather helplessly, avoiding the pleading look in the visitor’s eyes.
“It’s all right,” Nellie’s husband assured him, but an arm barred the way.
“I’ve got strict orders not to admit you,” blurted out the doorman, hating himself.
“Not to admit me!” said Harvey, slowly.
“I’m sorry, sir. Orders is orders.”
“But my little girl is there.”
“Yes, sir, I understand. The orders are for you, sir, not for the kid.” Struck by the look in the little man’s eyes he hastened to say, “Maybe if you saw Mr. Ripton out front and sent a note in to Miss Duluth, she’d change her mind and––”
“Good Lord!” fell from Harvey’s lips as he abruptly turned away to look for a spot where he could hide himself from every one.
Two hours later, from his position at the mouth of the alley, he saw a man come out of the stage door and blow a whistle thrice. He was almost perishing with cold; he was sure that his ears were frozen. A sharp snap at the 143 top of each of them and a subsequent warmth urged him to press quantities of snow against them, obeying the old rule that like cures like. From the kitchens of a big restaurant came the odours of cooking foodstuffs. He was hungry on this Merry Christmas night, but he would not leave his post. He had promised to wait for Phoebe and take her out home with him in the train.
With the three blasts of the whistle he stirred his numb feet and edged nearer to the stage door. A big limousine came rumbling up the alley from behind, almost running him down. The fur-coated chauffeur called him unspeakable names as he passed him with the emergency brakes released.