It seemed to Dorothy that any place must be easy to find in a small town, and when she was directed to the theatre by a man on the street, she was not surprised to find that it was but a few blocks from the depot.
Hurrying along, she reached a big hall, for the Lyceum, in spite of its name, was nothing but a big country hall, with the additional attraction of iron fire escapes. She knocked at the big broad wooden door, but soon discovered that the place was locked up and, evidently, deserted. She made a number of inquiries of boys she saw nearby, but all the information she could elicit from the urchins amounted to nothing more than laughter and “guying” to the effect that the company had come to grief in its attempt to give Rockdale folks a hint as to what Lady Rossmore’s “Secret” was. It appeared that the company had arrived in town, but had at once gotten into legal difficulties because of some trouble back in Rochester.
“But where are the members of the company?” Dorothy asked of one boy who was larger than his companions, and who had not been so ready to make fun of the unfortunates.
“Some’s gone back home I guess, that is if they has homes—some’s hanging ’round the hotel, where their trunks was attached as soon as the baggage man brought ’em in—some’s sitting around on the benches in the green. Guess none of ’em had any dinner to-day, for them hotel people is as mean as dirt.”
“Where is the hotel?”
“That’s the hotel, over there,” answered the boy, pointing to a building on the opposite corner. “Mansion House, they call it, though I never could see much of a mansion about that old barn.”
The afternoon was wearing away and Dorothy felt that she must make all possible haste if she was to get back to North Birchland that night, as she knew she must for her own sake. So, thanking the boy she hurried over to the hotel, and, after making some inquiries of a number of loungers on the broad, low veranda, was directed to the office.
She asked some questions regarding the whereabouts of members of the theatrical company, but the man at the dingy old desk was inclined to make inquiries himself, rather than answer Dorothy’s. He wanted to know if she had called to settle up for any of the “guys” and if not he demanded to know if she took him for a bureau of information or a public phonograph, and he grinned delightfully at his feeble wit.
“I don’t keep tabs on every barn-storming theatrical company,” he growled out. “Much as I kin do to look after their baggage and see they don’t skin me—that’s my game in a case like this.”
Dorothy pleaded with him to give her any information he might have as to the whereabouts of any girl or woman member of the company, but he was ugly, evidently because of the loss of some money or patronage in connection with the theatrical fiasco, and would not give so much as an encouraging word.