Mignon ran lightly down the stairs and to her dressing room. Inspired by the recent interview, she promptly accosted the ubiquitous Rowena, as she lounged lazily in a chair. “You mustn’t go out of the dressing room or upstairs again until the operetta is over,” she dictated. “Laurie doesn’t want you to. He just spoke to me about it. He has allowed you a lot of liberty already, so I think you’d better do as he says. It won’t be long now until——”
“So Laurie thinks he can order me about, does he?” Rowena sprang to her feet in a rage. “That for Laurie!” She snapped contemptuous fingers. “This is your work. You’ve been talking about me to him. But you’ll be sorry. I know a way——”
Her mood swiftly changing she threw back her head and laughed. Resuming her chair she sat silently eyeing Mignon with a mirthful malevolence that sent a shiver of apprehension up and down the French girl’s spine. Rowena had undoubtedly been inspired with an idea that boded no good to her. As she dressed for the third act she cast more than one nervous glance at the smiling figure of insolence in the chair.
Not a word further had been exchanged between the two when the third act was called. Mignon half expected to see Rowena rise and follow her up the stairs, there to create a scene with Laurie that would delay the rise of the curtain. Nothing of the kind occurred, however, and the last act began and went on to a triumphant end.
After the curtain had been rung down on the final tableau, she made a dash for the stairs to encounter Rowena ascending them. She had already donned her evening cape and scarf. At sight of Mignon she called out in the careless, good-humored fashion she could assume at will: “Hurry up. I’m going on out to the limousine. I need a breath of fresh air.”
Partially convinced that Rowena had recovered from her fit of temper, Mignon gladly hastened to do her bidding. It was not until she began to look about for her high-laced boots that she changed her mind concerning her companion. They were nowhere to be seen. “Rowena has hidden them, just to be aggravating!” she exclaimed angrily. “That was her revenge. But I’ll find them.”
After a frantic ten-minutes’ search she managed to locate them, tucked into either sleeve of the long fur coat she had worn. Thankful to find them, she laced them in a hurry and proceeded to dress with all speed. A repeated receding of footsteps and gay voices from the direction of the stairway warned her that the dressing rooms were being rapidly deserted. Those who had come to Riverview by railway had only a short time after the performance in which to catch the last train for the night.
Taking the stairs, two at a time, Mignon made a rush for the stage door and on out into the cold, starlit night. The first thing she noted was a large part of the cast hurriedly boarding a street car for the station. But where was the Farnham limousine and Rowena? Where was the little line of automobiles she had seen parked along the street when she entered the theatre? Only one now remained, almost a block farther up the street. Her heart beat thankfully as she observed it. It looked like the Farnham limousine. It was just like Rowena to thus draw away a little distance in order to scare her into thinking she had been left behind.
Racing toward it she saw that the chauffeur was engaged in examining one of its tires. She heard a cheery voice call out, “All right, Captain,” and her knees grew weak. The voice did not sound like that of James, the Farnhams’ chauffeur. Hoping against hope she came abreast of it. Then her elfin eyes grew wide with despair. It was not the Farnhams’ car. It belonged to none other than the Deans.
Heartsick, she was about to turn away when a fresh young voice called out, “Mignon La Salle!” Forgetting everything except that she was in difficulties, she halted and managed to articulate, “Have you seen Miss Farnham’s car?”