No one seemed to pay any attention to the young reporter. He knew the general location of the dressing-rooms, and started toward them, intending to ask the first door-tender he saw for Madame Androletti. He was dimly aware of some confusion in the left wings, but he could see nothing.
“That’s the place for me!” thought Larry, hurrying on.
He had crossed the stage, and was pressing ahead, when some one hailed him.
“Hey, young feller, where you goin’?”
“Back here,” answered Larry, non-committally.
“Where’s that?”
“To see Madame Androletti.”
“Got a pass? Got any authority?”
Larry took a quick resolve.
“I’m from the Leader!” he exclaimed. “I want to see Madame Androletti. I covered the concert to-night. It was great. There’s my card. See you later—appointment—important—she wants to see me!” murmured Larry, quickly, as he hurried on, thrusting a bit of pasteboard into the man’s hand.