One of the morning trains that tap the little towns along the Sound ran into the Grand Central Depot. It was very hot in the lower levels of the station and the passengers, few in number—for it was midsummer and people were going out of town, not coming in—filed stragglingly up the long platform to the exit. One of them was a girl, fair and young, with those distinctive attributes of good looks and style that drew men’s eyes to her face and women’s to her clothes.
People watched her as she followed the porter carrying her suit-case, noting the lithe grace of her movements, her delicate slimness, the froth of blonde hair that curled out under the brim of her hat. She appeared oblivious to the interest she aroused and this indifference had once been natural, for to be looked at and admired had been her normal right and become a stale experience. Now it was assumed, an armor under which she sought protection, hid herself from morbid curiosity and eagerly observing eyes. To be pointed out as Sybil Saunders, the actress, was a very different thing from being pointed out as Sybil Saunders, the fiancée of James Dallas of the Dallas-Parkinson case.
The Dallas-Parkinson case had been a sensation three months back. James Dallas, a well-known actor, had killed Homer Parkinson during a quarrel in a man’s club, struck him on the head with a brass candlestick, and fled before the horrified onlookers could collect their senses. Dallas, a man of excellent character, had had many friends who claimed mitigating circumstances—Parkinson, drunk and brutal, had provoked the assault. But the Parkinson clan, new-rich oil people, breathing vengeance, had risen to the cause of their kinsman, poured out money in an effort to bring the fugitive to justice, and offered a reward of ten thousand dollars for his arrest. Of course Sybil Saunders had figured in the investigation, she was the betrothed of the murderer, their marriage had been at hand. She had gone through hours of questioning, relentless grilling, and had steadily maintained her ignorance of Dallas’ whereabouts; from the night of his disappearance she had heard nothing from him and knew nothing of him. The Parkinsons did not believe her statement, the police were uncertain.
As she walked toward the exit she carried a newspaper in her hand. Other people in the train had left theirs in their seats, but she, after a glance at the head-lines, had folded hers and laid it in her lap. Three seats behind her on the opposite side of the aisle she had noticed a man—had met his eyes as her own swept back carelessly over the car—and it was then that she had laid the paper down and looked out of the window. Under the light film of rouge on her cheeks a natural color had arisen. She had known he would be there but was startled to find him so close.
Now as she moved across the shining spaciousness of the lower-level waiting-room she stole a quick glance backward. He was following, mounting the incline. It was the man who had gone up with her on Friday. She had been out of town several times lately on week-end visits and one of them was always on the train. Sometimes it was a new one but she had become familiar with the type.
She knew he was behind her at the taxi stand as she gave the address in a loud voice. But he probably would disappear now; in the city they generally let her alone. It was only when she left town that they were always on hand, keeping their eye on her, ready to follow if she should try to slip away.
The taxi rolled out into the sweltering heat; incandescent streets roaring under the blinding glare of the sun. Her destination was the office of Stroud & Walberg, theatrical managers, and here in his opulent office set in aerial heights above the sweating city, Mr. Walberg offered her a friendly hand and a chair. Mr. Walberg, a kindly Hebrew, was kindlier than ever to this particular visitor. He was sorry for her—as who in his profession was not—and wanted to help her along and here was his proposition:
A committee of ladies, a high-society bunch summering up in Maine, wanted to give a play for charity. They’d got the chance to do something out of the ordinary, for Thomas N. Driscoll, the spool-cotton magnate who was in California, had offered them his place up there—Gull Island was the name—for an outdoor performance. Mr. Walberg, who had never seen it, enlarged on its attractions as if he had been trying to make a sale—a whole island, just off the mainland, magnificent mansion to be turned over to the company, housekeeper installed. The crowning touch was an open-air amphitheater, old Roman effect, tiers of stone seats, said to be one of the most artistic things of its kind in the country. The ladies had wanted a classic which Mr. Walberg opined was all right seeing the show was for charity, and people could stand being bored for a worthy object. Twelfth Night was the play they had selected, and as that kind of stage called for no scenery one thing would go as well as another.
The ladies had placed the matter in Mr. Walberg’s hands, and he had at once thought of Sybil Saunders for Viola. She had played the part through the provinces, made a hit and was in his opinion the ideal person. There was a persuasive, almost coaxing quality in his manner, not his usual manner with rising young actresses. But, as has been said, he was a kindly man, and had heard that Sybil Saunders was knocked out, couldn’t get the heart to work; also, as she was a young person of irreproachable character, he inferred she must be hard up. That brought him to compensation—not so munificent, but then Miss Saunders was not yet in the star class—and all expenses would be covered, including a week at Gull Island. This opportunity to dwell in the seats of the mighty, free of cost, with sea air and scenery thrown in, Mr. Walberg held before her as the final temptation.
He had no need for further persuasion for Miss Saunders accepted at once. She was grateful to him and said so and looked as if she meant it. He felt the elation of a good work done for the charitable ladies—they could get no one as capable as Sybil Saunders for the price—and for the girl herself whose best hope was to get back into harness. So, in a glow of mutual satisfaction, they walked to the door, Mr. Walberg telling over such members of the cast as had already been engaged: Sylvanus Grey for the Duke, Isabel Cornell for Maria, John Gordon Trevor for Sir Toby—no one could beat him, had the old English tradition—and Anne Tracy for Olivia. At that name Miss Saunders had exclaimed in evident pleasure. Anne Tracy would be perfect, and it would be so lovely having her, they were such friends. Mr. Walberg nodded urbanely as if encouraging the friendships of young actresses was his dearest wish, and at the door put the coping stone on these agreeable announcements: