“Like it?” echoed Baron. He couldn’t answer the question. He thought of something more pertinent to say. “It means that she will have a home—if we can keep her.”
Thornburg nodded slowly. “I don’t think anything better could happen to her than for you to keep her,” he said. “I suppose she’ll get the kind of care a little girl of her kind needs. If she’s just a waif of the theatre she probably has a lot to learn about—oh, about life and real things.”
“Very likely,” Baron agreed. He added: “I was hoping you might throw some light on the case—as to who she is and where she came from.”
Thornburg shook his head. “No, I couldn’t,” he said.
“About her coming to the theatre——”
“A woman brought her to the theatre and asked to be admitted. She belonged to the profession—the woman. We usually pass them in if there’s any room. There happened to be just one seat left down-stairs—in the back row—and I told her she could have that. I supposed she would hold the little girl on her lap. I was provoked when I saw she had let her wander up into the box where you were. In fact, I spoke to her about it.”
“And you don’t know who the woman was—even by reputation?”
“Oh, there are thousands of such people—people who are ‘of the profession.’ Vaudeville people, circus performers, members of little stock companies, third-rate travelling troupes—they all ask for free seats.”
Baron reflected. “I suppose,” he said at length, “such people are often in financial straits?”
“My goodness, yes! Almost always.”