The curtain was down. In order to save time and steps, Mary ran across the stage, between the scenery. At her hurried knock a key was turned, and the door of the anteroom opened wide enough to allow her to slip in.
“Hush!” the doorkeeper whispered, carefully locking the door after admitting her.
Landis, Mame, Anna Cresswell and a dozen others were already there.
“Are we all here now?” whispered the doorkeeper. They began to count. The light was so dim that they could barely distinguish faces.
“Fourteen,” said Landis. “That is all.”
“Be sure,” admonished the keeper of the keys in sepulchral tones. “I would not for worlds have one absent.”
“That’s all.” “Fourteen.” “We’re all here.” “Do tell us so that we can hurry back to dress!” came from the members of the group.
At this, the girl with the keys drew her chair close to a second door leading into a dark, unfinished attic. Over the door which was nailed shut was a small transom. As she mounted the chair, Mary Wilson for the first time recognized her as a Miss Bowman, a special student in music, neither a Middler nor a Senior.
“Then,” said Miss Bowman, lifting her hand with the key in it to the open transom, and turning to face the girls, “then we’ll stay here.” With that she dropped the key into the attic. They were prisoners; she, with them.
“It’s those Middlers,” groaned Mary Wilson. “We might have known; and my little innocent Elizabeth is at the bottom of this.”