A hand was laid upon Abbott's arm. "Abbott," said the voice of Robert Clinton, harsh from smothered excitement, "You went to Gregory's house—did you see him?"
Abbott did not hear. The refractory lion, knowing that his time had come to be ridden, was asserting his independence. He would not leap upon the table. The other lion stood watching sleepily to see if he would obey.
"That you, Clinton?" Simon's greeting was tense with enjoyment. "Got here for the best of it, didn't you! Seems to me I saw Gregory somewhere not long ago, but I wasn't thinking about him."
"Hercules!" the masked woman addressed the gentler of the lions. "Go to your place. Hercules—go to your place!"
Hercules turned to his blue box, and seated himself upon it, leaving his tail to take care of itself.
"Say, Simon," muttered Robert Clinton, "you didn't see Miss Grace
Noir, did you?"
"Shut up!" said Simon desperately.
The show-girl was fiercely addressing the black-maned lion. "Now! Now!
To the table! To the table!"
Samson did not budge. Facing the woman of the mask, he opened his mouth, revealing the red cave of his throat—past the ivory sentinels that not only stood guard, but threatened, one could look down and down. This was no yawn of weariness, but a sign of rebellion—a sort of noiseless roar.
The trainer retreated to the farther side of the cage, then made a forward rush, waving her whip, and shouting dangerously, "Up, Samson, up Samson, UP!" She did not pause in her course till close to his face.