Mary had a later entrance, which Cartel cut, but it necessitated the mention of her name, whereupon the monster mirth was loosed again.
Finally the curtain descended upon the tragedy. Mrs. Horton went into hysterics, and Mr. Horton, bathed in sweat, went to look for Isabelle.
The company stood about in frightened groups, but he did not see them. He threw open her door without so much as a knock upon it, and he shouted so you could have heard him in Harlem.
“You little beast! You—you hell-cat! What d’ye mean by spoiling my scene like that?”
“Oh, I am so sorry,” said Isabelle, “I didn’t mean to do it, but I got the two Marys all mixed up.”
“You’re crazy—you’re a mad woman! What do you think this will mean to me? It means failure—complete failure! I never could get through the scene again. It means thousands of dollars, that’s what it means. Because I let a stage-struck fool like you speak a line! Talk about gratitude! You turn and ruin me!”
“But I didn’t know——”
“Don’t pull that baby stuff!” he shrieked. “You did know. You intended to do it all the time. You’re so crazy about yourself, that you’d murder your own mother to get the spotlight! Get out of here! Don’t you ever let me see your face again! Don’t you ever step in this theatre, you dirty spy! Take her away! Take her away!” he raved, now entirely beside himself.
Isabelle for once was dumb. Poor, terrified Miss Watts seized her by the arm, and dragged her out the stage door, and down the alley.