An angry howl drowned him out. He retreated at accelerated discretion.
Whitaker, slipping through the stage-door behind the boxes, ran into the last speaker standing beside the first entrance, heatedly explaining to any one who would listen the utter futility of offering box-office prices in return for seat checks which in the majority of instances had cost their holders top-notch speculator prices.
"They'll wreck the theatre," he shouted excitedly, mopping his brow with his coat sleeve, "and damned if I blame 'em! What t'ell'd she wana pull a raw one like this for?"
Whitaker caught his arm in a grasp compelling attention.
"Where's Miss Law?" he asked.
"You tell me and I'll make you a handsome present," retorted the man.
"What's happened to her? Can't you find her?"
"I dunno—go ask Max."
"Where is he?"
"You can search me; last I saw of him he was tearing the star dressin'-room up by the roots."