“Perhaps I could see her, and ask her if she is all right again,” proposed Larry. “A little interview——”
“Ah, exactly!” exclaimed the manager, not at all unwilling to get all the press notices he could for the prima donna he was managing. “This way, I’ll point out her room. She will see you.”
He left Larry at the door of the dressing-room. It was not the first time our hero had interviewed stage people in their rooms. As he paused, before knocking, he heard the murmuring voice again.
“Ah, my Lorenzo! My little Lorenzo!”
Larry was at once impressed by two things. One was that there was no answering tones of a boy’s voice, and the other was that there was, in the notes of Madame Androletti, extreme anguish. It was not as though she was speaking to her son, but, rather, lamenting him. Larry grew suddenly suspicious.
He knocked on the door. There was a moment of silence, and then a strained voice answered:
“Who is there? Go away! I can see no one!”
Larry resolved on a sudden plan. He was going to do a daring thing. There was no other person in sight.
“Madame Androletti!” he called, with his lips close to the portal. “I am a reporter from the Leader. I was at your concert to-night. I saw the man with the foreign decoration. I saw his two confederates. I may be able to help you find your son.”
The door was fairly flung open. The singer, with tears in her eyes, confronted the young reporter.