Nichoune went on her way, bent on getting rid of her burden of programmes with all speed.
Just as another singer appeared on the platform, Nichoune reached the last row of chairs, and was about to leave, when she heard her name uttered in a low voice by a man enveloped in a large cloak.
He was standing, and was leaning against the wall at the extreme end of the concert-room: he was an aged man.
Nichoune hesitated, searching with her eyes for the person who had called her in a low, penetrating voice. She was about to continue on her way, when the old fellow half opened his cloak for an instant to give her a glimpse of a bulky kind of a box which was slung across his chest.
Immediately the singer went straight towards him.
"A programme?" she asked him in a loud voice.
He gave an affirmative nod for all the world to see: then whispered low.
"Go home directly the concert is over! I must speak to you!"
"Very good," replied the singer in a submissive tone.
Then aloud she queried: