They pushed through the thick curtain. Cleve was the last of the four. He noticed the inner entrances to the unoccupied boxes, as he passed. Then they reached the sliding door to the wings of the stage. Darley conducted the party to a dressing room, where he introduced his friends to Foo Chow.
The Chinese actor was a most interesting specimen of his race. He was much older than he had appeared when on stage. He shook hands in American style, and beamed pleasantly.
“I like these visits to America,” he said, in perfect English. “There is an appreciation here that one does not find in my own land. There, they are used to my work. Here, it is new to those who witness it.”
To Cleve, the brief visit was as uninteresting as the performance had proved to be; but he made no comment. He saw no possible connection between Foo Chow and the affairs of Chinatown.
Ling Soo — the Wu-Fan — the Tiger Tong. These were matters that seemed of more importance than a visit back stage at the Mukden Theater.
Such thoughts brought Cleve’s mind to The Shadow. He was still thinking of the mysterious man in black when he left the dressing room with his companions.
They followed the narrow passage beside the boxes, Cleve again at the rear. As they came to the curtain, the man ahead of Cleve dropped the hanging, and Cleve stood alone in the darkness.
Something prompted him to look in the nearest box. It was Box C, although Cleve did not know it, and would have thought nothing of the fact. He stepped past the curtain of the box. He saw the outlines of seats, by the high, built-up rail.
A board creaked under Cleve’s foot as he approached a chair and stood there, watching the stage.
The Chinese play was drawing to its close. Cleve Branch viewed it mechanically. He had a vague impression that someone was here, close beside him, in this box. He turned instinctively and stared at the shadowy corner.