Whitaker hurried on just in time to see Max disappearing in the direction of the stage-door, at which point he caught up with him, and from the manager's disjointed catechism of the doorkeeper garnered the information that the star had hurried out of the building while Max was making his announcement before the curtain.
Max swung angrily upon Whitaker.
"Oh, it's you, is it? Perhaps you can explain what this means? She was looking straight at you when she dried up! I saw her—"
"Perhaps you'd better find Miss Law and ask her," Whitaker interrupted. "Have you any idea where she's gone?"
"Home, probably," Max snapped in return.
"Where's that?"
"Fifty-seventh Street—house of her own—just bought it."
"Come on, then." Passing his arm through the manager's, Whitaker drew him out into the alley. "We'll get a taxi before this mob—"
"But, look here—what business've you got mixing in?"
"Ask Miss Law," said Whitaker, shortly. It had been on the tip of his tongue to tell the man flatly: "I'm her husband." But he retained wit enough to deny himself the satisfaction of this shattering rejoinder. "I know her," he added; "that's enough for the present."