“Your little opera,” said the prima donna, as they parted at the door, “it is beautiful. I am sure it will be a great success. And I am coming on your first night.”
“Th—thanks.” Scarcely could the little dancer keep back her tears. “I—I’ll tell Angelo and Swen, and Mr. Solomon and the old trouper and—and all the rest.”
“Your Golden Circle.” The prima donna pressed her hand, and was gone, leaving her feeling as though she had spoken with an angel.
“But I must not dream!” She shook herself free from golden fancies. “There is much work to be done! Ten long, hard days, and then—ah then!” She drank in one long, deep breath. Then she went dancing down the hallway to find Florence anxiously awaiting her return.
CHAPTER XXXI
THE PURSUIT
Darkness had fallen when Florence stepped from the theatre, just one week later. Rehearsal had started at five on that afternoon. Two members of the cast had found it impossible to be there at an earlier hour. Once into the swing of the thing, they had worked on and on quite unconscious of the fleeing hours.
She shuddered a little as she closed the door behind her. In her right hand was her leather Boston bag. As upon other occasions, a short chain, running through two rings at the top of the bag, held it tight shut. The ends of the chain were united by a stout little padlock.
Strong custodian of his Highness, the God of Fire, she peered through the darkness, looking north and south for a cab. Her brow wrinkled. On entering the building that night she had spied two dark-faced men loitering outside.
“And it’s important,” she told herself, setting her lips tight. “Very, very important.”
She was thinking of the strange God of Fire. Many times his story had been told that week. On the dramatic pages of daily papers and even in one magazine his ugly face had appeared. And always beside him, as if for contrast, was the lovely face and figure of the “sweetest dancer of all time,” Petite Jeanne.