“Oh, Mr. Graham! Save me!” she cried, half hysterically. “See, I have had to defend myself from those fiends with this pistol. Oh, what am I to think of this wicked woman?”
Clayton Graham looked bewildered for a moment, then a light dawned on his mind—he understood Carlotta’s motive. He had goaded this woman to fury when he spoke to her of Marion’s virtue; now she was doing her best to ruin the young girl’s fair name, and she would have succeeded admirably with one less noble and courageous than Marion.
“So this is your revenge,” he muttered, facing the woman. “You are trying to blacken her good name, you infamous creature!”
The woman answered nothing, she had been caught red-handed. No one knew her better than Clayton Graham—there was no use trying to deceive him in the matter.
“She was weeping in the dressing-room and I spoke to her,” went on Marion, quickly. “She said she was grieving over the loss of a friend and asked me to come home with her, so she would not be so lonely.”
“So she was afraid of being lonely—poor Carlotta,” said the manager with a sneer. “Well, it’s lucky for you, child, that I saw you getting into her carriage. I knew she was up to something, and I called the turn pretty correctly.”
“So that is why I am honored with your presence,” said Carlotta, sarcastically. “You came here to rescue your new sweetheart Ila from the natural vengeance of your old sweetheart Carlotta.”
Clayton Graham looked at her scornfully, but did not deign to reply. Then his glance swept the full length and breadth of her now thoroughly sobered companions.
“I knew you were blackguards and loafers before,” he said, coolly, “but I wouldn’t have believed that drunk or sober you wouldn’t respect an innocent girl. Carlotta must have you in good training, you infamous puppies!”