"They wouldn't come in here."
"They might—"
He glanced irresolutely about him and then opened the door of the roulotte and helped her up the steps.
"Stay there-and lock the door."
He paused a moment, his hand on the doorknob, looking over the head of the audience toward the entrance flap, where Cleofonte, oblivious of the tragedy which threatened the newer members of his family, still shouted hoarsely. Philidor stopped in the dressing tent and spoke a few words to the Signora, made his way across the arena, peering over Cleofonte's shoulder, and then, his course of action chosen, slipped quickly into his accustomed place outside.
"_Dix sous, Messieurs et Dames!" he shouted. "The greatest act of this or any age—the Famille Fabiani, the world renowned acrobats, jugglers and strong man! Six great acts of skill and strength, any one of which is worth the price of admission! Entrez, Mesdames, and see the fight between Signor Cleofonte, the strongest man in the world, and the savage bear captured from the forests of Siberia! A contest which thrills the blood—for in spite of the great strength of the Signor—which has been compared to that of Samson, who once fought and conquered, single handed, a lion (smiles of approval from Cleofonte at the eloquence of this comparison), in spite of the great strength of the Signor—I say—the danger of his destruction is ever present, as any one who has seen the contest can testify. Come one, come all, Messieurs, only once in a lifetime does one have a chance to see the Signorina Stella Fabiani, the child wonder, Queen of the Mat and Queen of the Air, in her extraordinary acts of flight and contortion—"
During this harangue Philidor had felt rather than seen the figure which had slowly wedged through the crowd at one side and now stood beside him. He knew that it was Olga Tcherny, but he had not dared to look at her, though he was quite sure that her head was perched on one side in the birdlike pose she found effective, and that her eyes, mocking and mischievous, were searching him intently. But he went on extravagantly, searching his wits for Barnum-like adjectives.
"Entrez, Messieurs, and see the beautiful female Juggler of Naples, who tosses ten sharp knives and burning brands into the air at one and the same time, not lets one of them touch the ground—who tosses a cannon ball, an apple and a piece of paper—who spins two dishes on the end of a stick, with one hand, while she rolls a hoop with the other—a lady who has acted before all of the crowned heads of Europe. There will never again be such great artists, a performance unsurpassed and even unequaled in the history of the Oire."
Philidor's adjectives had given out—as had his breath—and so he paused. As he did so he heard Olga's voice beside him in a single but curiously expressive syllable.
"Well?" it asked.