The sound of her voice was drowned by the chorus on the stage.
A scream would not be drowned. The man knew that well enough. But did she dare scream? This was the question at the back of the man’s shrewd but narrow mind.
She had said she would scream. To do this would be to invite a panic. A girl’s scream coming from back-stage during a dramatic moment of a Grand Opera performance could mean something little short of murder.
And yet the man, standing there irresolute, read in her eyes the answer: she would scream.
She looked down for an instant. When she lifted her eyes, he was gone. And the Grand Opera performance went on.
But now what? She dared not retrace her steps. The man would be lurking there.
Dashing across the back of the stage, she seized the handle of a door. It came open noiselessly. She passed through and closed it after her.
But where was she? In a mere cubby-hole of a place. A closet? No. An elevator, a French lift, the sort you operate yourself. You punch a button here and you go up; you press another button there and you stop.
She pressed a button. Up she glided. There were floors above, many, many floors. She would come to a halt at some floor, leave the elevator, and go speeding away.
She had glided up how many floors? She could not tell. Then she became frightened.