Baron could see the picture: the grotesque persons at his door; the sallow tragedian with a bass voice and no mentality to speak of; the low comedian, fat and obtuse; the ingénue with big, childish eyes and deep lines in her face; the leading lady with a self-imposed burden of cheap jewelry. He saw, too, the big-hearted among them, gravely kind toward children, and with a carefully schooled yearning for them.
He straightened up with a jerk. “Oh, that wouldn’t be necessary,” he declared. “I could correspond with them through the agency of the newspaper. I needn’t give them my name and address at all. I could require proper proofs before I appeared in the matter at all personally.”
This idea seemed to strike Thornburg as a method of escape from a dilemma. “Why shouldn’t I have thought of that way myself?” he exclaimed. “I can do it that way, of course. Better for me than for you. More in my line, at least.”
“I’m inclined to think I ought to do it myself,” objected Baron. “I really don’t see why I should leave it to you.” Something in Thornburg’s manner had created a suspicion in his mind. There was something too eager in the manager’s tone; there was a hint of cunning.
“If I give you my word?” said Thornburg. He was resentful, offended. His face had flamed to the roots of his hair.
“Oh, if you give me your word,” agreed Baron lightly. “I’ve no objection. Certainly, go ahead.” He scrutinized his stick with a long, frowning inspection. Then he arose with decision. “I’ll leave it to you,” he added. “Only, I want to make one condition.”
“Oh—a condition! Well, what?”
“You’ll not take offense, Thornburg. You see, I have certain scruples.” His mind had gone back over several episodes, and his analysis of them pointed unyieldingly to one plain duty. “I want to ask you just one question, and you’re to answer it in just a word: Yes, or No.”
“Well, what’s the question?”
Baron looked steadily into the other’s eyes.