And here it was that Berry saw another sign of trouble—the glaring, brightly colored aggressively prominent sign which always made her think that to-day’s accident had been foreordained.
It took the shape of a bill announcing the forthcoming opening of the new Crumplesea Opera House, when—to quote the announcement verbatim—“Mr. Milton Dante’s celebrated company of London artists would present the world-famous musical play, ‘The Beauty of Gotham,’ headed by the gifted and beautiful American actress and prima donna, Miss Rosalind Montague-Vance.”
A slow pallor, creeping like a snail, came steadily down over Berry’s face as she saw that bill. She stood for a long time looking fixedly at the printed words and not saying one word, not making one sound.
So she was still standing when, some twenty minutes later, her tea was brought into her by the obsequious Blint himself.
She sat down and drank the tea and ate the buttered toast she had ordered, and then rang the bell and called the man back to the room.
“Blint,” she said, pointing to the bill hanging upon the wall, “have those people come to Crumplesea as yet? I see they are advertised to open the new hall next Thursday. Have they come here yet?”
“No, my lady, not yet, of course; it’s best part of a week until Thursday. The advance agent will be here to-morrow, though, to make arrangements for rooms and the like. Hamer—him as runs the Cliff Hotel, as you may remember, seeing that he’s a tenant of yours—got word to that effect this afternoon, and come over to see if I’d any rooms vacant; him not being able to put up the whole party.”
Berry pushed back her empty teacup, and rose.
“See that they don’t get any, then,” she said, in a singularly dry voice. “See that every room in every hotel in the place is engaged for me. I don’t care what it costs, I want them all. Engage them for me.”
“I beg pardon, ma’am, but—but can you really mean it?”