When Marion awoke the next morning she saw Alma Allyn standing by her bed-side, her eyes fairly bulging with horror.
“Quick, Marion, look!” she cried, holding out the morning paper. “Clayton Graham is dead. He has been murdered in his own apartments.”
The young girl sat bolt upright in bed and snatched the paper hastily. She could hardly speak for a moment after she finished reading.
“It was Carlotta, no doubt,” said Miss Allyn, slowly, “for they say she is missing and has been since midnight.”
“It is dreadful,” cried Marion, springing out of bed. “Oh, it doesn’t seem possible that she could have done it.”
“Well, they know it was a woman,” said her friend, as she glanced over the paper again, “and who so likely as Carlotta?”
“I knew they had been quarreling frequently of late—every one in the company knew it,” was the thoughtful answer, “but still I can’t think that she would actually murder him, for, in spite of her bad temper, I believe she loved him.”
“It was probably done in a second; she had, no doubt, lost her self-control completely when she shot him,” said Miss Allyn.
Marion dressed herself hastily and ate her breakfast; then, as soon as she could, she started for the theatre.
There was quite a group of girls at the stage door when she reached there and, of course, they had all come on the same errand.