He came upon the heaped sections of the newspapers he had examined. That reminded him. The newspapers were not the only source of information—nor perhaps the most likely source—so far as his immediate needs were concerned.
No, there was a certain visit he must make that morning.
A little later he emerged from the mansion and stood for an instant on the steps in the brilliant sunlight. Then he descended the steps and was gone.
CHAPTER VIII
STILL UNCLAIMED
Baron was on his way to see Thornburg.
On six days and seven nights Thornburg was one of the busiest men in town. But there was one day in the week when he liked to pose as a man of leisure. From ten or eleven o’clock on Sunday morning, and until the latter part of the afternoon, there were few people about the theatre to disturb him or to claim his attention. And during these hours it was his practise to lean back in the comfortable chair in his private office in the theatre and look through old letters and souvenirs, if there were no callers, or to exchange current gossip or old reminiscences with the people of his profession who dropped in to see him. Usually these were managers or agents who happened to be in town, and sometimes there were veteran players who were retired, or who were temporarily unemployed. And occasionally there were politicians who liked to keep on affable terms with the source of free passes.
When Baron entered the manager’s presence he found that usually engaged person quite at liberty.
The little office was a place which was not without its fascination to most people. On the walls there were framed photographs of Jefferson as Rip Van Winkle, of Booth as Richard III, of Modjeska as Portia, and of other notable players. In many cases the pictures bore sprawling autographs across their faces, low enough not to hurt. Between these authentic ornaments there were fanciful sketches of dancing girls in extravagant costumes and postures, and a general ornamentation scheme of masks and foils and armor.
So complacent and open-minded was Thornburg when Baron appeared that the latter came to a swift, seemingly irrelevant conclusion.
“Nobody has claimed her! She’s going to stay!” were the words that formed themselves in Baron’s mind. The dull, monotonous aspects of the old mansion were to be changed. A new voice, like a melody rising above droning chords, was to greet his ears at morning and night. A thing of beauty was to take its place before the background of dull, long-established things.