All through the final act sounded the low note of tragedy, the realization that she who for centuries had ruthlessly taken toll must now once more be sacrificed that the one who had become dearer than life might endure.
When the audience finally rose after another futile [22] ]attempt to bring her out, the women’s eyes were red, the men’s faces white. New York was undoubtedly taken by storm. It had been more than a typical Kane first night. It had been a Kane ovation.
In the first row a man got to his feet as if shaking off a spell. He was tall, very erect, almost rawboned, with hair turning gray about the temples, a demanding jaw, sharp straight nose and eyes that somehow seemed younger than the rest of his face, younger than the bushy black brows that mounted over them. They had caught Parsinova’s gaze, those eyes, as it swept once or twice over the audience. They had held it longer than was fair to her.
“Great, isn’t she, Rand?” His companion tapped his arm as he stood gazing at the fallen curtain.
“Paralyzing,” was the laconic reply. He wheeled about and made his way up the aisle, followed by the other man.
Outside, close to the shadowy stage entrance, Oswald Kane’s car, a royal blue limousine, and a curious throng of bystanders waited.
Inside, Oswald Kane himself begged the circle of those privileged by wealth, position, influence, who clustered round the door of the star’s dressing-room, to excuse her for to-night. Madame was completely exhausted.
When both crowds, tired of waiting, had dispersed two figures hurried down the little alley that led to the stage door and entered the limousine.
The door slammed.
The car rolled out and east toward Fifth Avenue.