“That’s strange,” mused Larry, and then turned back, for the singer was beginning her song, her exquisite voice filling the big auditorium.
She had not sung half a dozen words, throwing into them all the dramatic force of which she was capable, before Larry, who was watching her closely, saw a strange change come over her.
She stepped back, evidently in fear, and then her hands went up over her eyes, as though to shut out some terrifying sight. At first the audience thought it was all part of her acting—though the song did not call for that sort of stage “business.”
A moment later, however, showed the mistake. For Madame Androletti ceased singing, and the strains of the orchestra came to an end with a sudden crash.
The singer cried out something in Italian. What it was Larry did not know, but he could tell, by her tones, that she was frightened.
An instant later she swayed, and she would have fallen to the stage had not her maid and her manager sprung from the wings and caught her.
“Curtain!” Larry heard the manager call quickly, and the big sheet of asbestos slid slowly down. The audience was in an uproar, though a subdued one, and there was no sign of panic.
“She’s fainted!” was whispered on all sides.
Before the curtain was fully down Larry looked under it, and he had a glimpse of the eyes of the stricken singer peering out. And there was fright in them—deadly fright.
Like a flash Larry turned and looked back of him, for it was at some distant point in the hall that Madame Androletti was gazing.