"Taxi!"
The vehicle was forthcoming instantly, due to his visored cap, gold bands, and star. He jumped into the taxi, naming a theater up-town. He paid a speculator five dollars for the only seat left—Q, center. As he was late, he had to navigate through channels of reluctant feet. Norma Farrington! He had only one idea with four sides to it—something complete.
The footlights flashed. When the curtain rolled up there were three people on the stage—no one he had ever seen before. They moved about and talked. Occasionally a ripple of laughter ran over the house. But none of these things meant anything to Mathison. He was not conscious of a word that was spoken or the significance of a single movement.
There were four entrances to this stage living-room, and Mathison grew dizzy trying to watch all four at once. At eight-forty, through the French window—you saw a charming garden beyond—came a woman in gray. Her expression was demure—mischievously demure. The audience broke into applause. Tense, Mathison strained his ears.
Outside the blond man waited with the patience of his breed. His glance never left the entrance to the theater.
CHAPTER XIII
As soon as the curtain fell Mathison stood up and plowed his way out to the aisle. Once in the aisle, he rushed to the foyer, where he demanded the way to the managerial office. His uniform was open sesame.
The producing manager, a dapper, bright-eyed Jew, happened to be in, and he was outlining a campaign for his press agent when Mathison burst in.