He had made up his mind that he would try to see Madame Androletti after the concert, and ask her what had frightened her. True, she might not tell him, but Larry was too good a newspaperman to mind a refusal. And he had his own way of getting news.
The young reporter looked about the hall. He wanted to see if the big man, with the foreign decoration, was again present. But, if he was, our hero failed to get a glimpse of him. Nor could he see the two more ordinarily dressed men who had answered the man’s signal.
“Well, this looks as if something was doing,” said Larry to himself, as there was a movement behind the curtain. A murmur ran through the audience as the manager again stepped before the footlights.
“Oh, I do hope she can sing,” whispered Miss Mason. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything! Oh, what a strain public performers must be under, to have to appear when they are not able.”
“It’s part of the game,” murmured Larry, narrowly watching the manager.
The latter began to speak.
“I am glad to be able to inform you,” he said, “that Madame Androletti has somewhat recovered from her indisposition, and will be able to continue. She craves your indulgence, however, if she is not just exactly in voice, but she will do her best.”
Applause interrupted him.
“Madame Androletti will omit the number she was singing when she fainted,” the conductor went on, “as it might have a bad effect on her nerves. She will substitute another,” and he named it, Larry making a note for the benefit of the musical critic whose place he was temporarily filling.
The manager bowed, there was more applause, and then the singer herself appeared. The applause burst out into a great volume of sound, for the audience recognized the pluck it took to come back when physically indisposed, and they appreciated what Madame Androletti was doing.