He paused, slowly unbuttoning his waistcoat. Klein waited expectantly for him to continue, confident that whatever was troubling the juvenile man would have a direct bearing upon Delmar’s photograph. That the photograph had temporarily upset and confused Tanner was not to be questioned. The excuse he had given Klein was obviously a lie. Then, following this, had come Metcalfe’s dramatic scene, which beyond any doubt had been prompted by the same photograph.
Yet both men avoided the real issue, and both attributed their lack of self-control to a case of “nerves.”
“In the first place,” Metcalfe said, “on the very day I left New York——”
The door of the dressing room was at this present moment thrown open, and Dodge stepped inside. He stood before the occupants with folded arms, glaring from one to another.
“What’s the trouble, Dodge?” Metcalfe asked, sinking back in his chair, plainly annoyed at the interruption.
“Matter? Matter?” Dodge burst out indignantly. “I should think you gentlemen would be ashamed of yourselves!”
“Ashamed?” echoed Klein. “What have we—-”
“I’d like to be stage manager of this company for about five minutes,” the character man interrupted. “That’s what I would! Such outrageous actions as I witnessed this afternoon would not be tolerated for an instant. You gentlemen have absolutely no respect for your profession—none at all. To clown on a scene deliberately is beneath the dignity of a conscientious artist.”
“He’s off,” muttered Metcalfe; then louder: “I suppose when you were with Booth and Barrett——”
“When I was with Booth, young man,” thundered Dodge, his deep voice rolling impressively, “we looked upon our art as a most serious matter. In those palmy days, sir, an actor held himself above such shameful proceedings as clowning. Mr. Booth would no more have allowed it than——”