“Gladys,” said Bab, timidly.
Gladys turned to her haughtily. “I would rather,” she said, “that you did not speak to me. We cannot have much to say to each other. Harry Townsend told me”—Gladys spoke so passionately and with such deep anger in her tones that Barbara stared at her aghast—“of the accusation you made against him. He made me promise not to speak of it, but I will speak of it to you. I want you to know that I shall never forgive you as long as I live, and that I shall get even with you some day. You are jealous and envious of me because we have more money, and because Harry Townsend likes me. I want you never to talk to me.”
“O Gladys!” said Barbara. She was angry and hurt, but she was more frightened by the real feeling her cousin showed. Did she care for Mr. Townsend so much? Gladys was nearly eighteen, and Bab knew that ever since she was a girl of fourteen she had been brought up to think she was a young lady.
“Gladys,” said Bab, firmly, “listen to me! Be quiet. I cannot tell you what I wish to say in this ballroom, to-night, among all these people, but I have something to tell you that you simply must know. Do you understand? Come to my house in the morning, and don’t fail.” Barbara’s tones were so new and commanding that Gladys could only stare at her in silent amazement.
“Yes,” she said, meekly; “I will come.”
Bab’s eyes were burning, and her cheeks stung with the shame of the scene between herself and Gladys. In order to be alone in the fresh air, she slipped out of the dressing-room door which opened into a side yard. This yard had a double hedge of althea bushes which led into the back part of the Casino grounds. At the same instant that Bab left the dressing-room door, a man passed her on the other side of the hedge. He was going into the back part of the garden.
The show grounds of the Casino were in a central court. In the rear, back of the kitchens, was a long arbor covered with heavy grapevines. The man Bab followed slipped into this arbor.
When Barbara glanced into it a second later—she dared not move quickly, for fear of making a noise—there was no human figure in sight. “He has gone on down through the arbor and slipped over the fence,” she thought to herself.
She was feeling her way along, trying to keep in the center path. The night was dark, and there were few stars overhead.
Suddenly, Bab gave a little shriek of terror and started back. Crouching in the darkness was a man. His back was turned to Barbara, and, if the darkness was not deceiving her, he was digging in the earth.