"All goes well," he said, pressing Grace's hand. "Nobody will find out that we have been in here."
"Watch for Mr. Clinton," Grace counseled cautiously. "If he comes in, stoop lower."
"They're all strangers, Grace. Providence is with us—there's Simon
Jefferson!" He was too amazed to think of concealment.
"Hush! Yes—and Abbott Ashton."
Gregory pulled his hat over his eyes.
Into the tent streamed a fresh body of sightseers. Simon, swinging to the rope that was stretched in front of the big cage, grumbled at being elbowed by weary mothers and broad-chested farmers. He told Abbott, "The lions are the only ones that have plenty of room. I wish there was a cage for me. But it's worth being jammed to see La Gonizetti—she's pretty as they're made and she's pretty all over, and she don't care who knows it. Now the first half is about to begin, but it's just bears and clowns; don't get fooled, though, La Gonizetti will come later, O. K."
The band entered and squatted upon blue boxes in one corner. Showy red coats were removed in deference to sweltering heat, and melody presided in undress. Three bears, two clowns and a bicycle sharpened interest in what was to come, whetting the mind upon jokes blunter than the intelligence of the audience. Even the band ceased playing though that had not seemed possible; its depressing andantinos had not only subdued the bears, rendering them as harmless as kittens, but had mournfully depressed the audience.
Into this atmosphere of tamed inertness, suddenly flashed a little figure whose quivering vitality communicated electric thrills. Even the clowns moved less like treadmill horses, as they took their stations at the smaller cages, waiting to lift the gates that would admit the restless lions into the central cage.
The form that had appeared—one knew not whence—was that of a slight woman, dressed in a short silk skirt of blue, and bodice of white satin. The trimmings which ran in all directions, were rich in pendents of gold and rubies. Above all, there was the alluring mystery of a crimson mask which effectually hid the woman's face.
Simon whispered into Abbott's always unready ear, "That isn't La Gonizetti. Wonder what this means? La Gonizetti is much more of a woman than this one, and she doesn't wear a mask, or much of anything else. La Gonizetti doesn't care who sees her. Why, this is nothing but a mere—I tell you now, if she ain't on to her job, I mean to have my money back." Simon glowered.