“Police? Here? Last night? This place? Why here last night?” Suspicion had been added to the anger in this man’s hard heart.
Seeing that he had given the thing away, Angelo made a clean breast of the whole affair.
The face of the director, as he learned that Petite Jeanne had been practicing her old dances at night in his theatre with the intention of using those dances on the opening night, was a terrible thing to see.
“That!” he exploded, as Angelo’s story was finished. “That is the end!”
“Yes,” replied Angelo coldly, “no doubt of it. And well ended, too.”
Beckoning to his companions, he walked from the room, down the stairs and out into the autumn morning.
They walked, the three of them, Florence, Angelo and Dan Baker, one full city block. Then Dan Baker spoke. What he said was:
“Coffee. Coffee and waffles, with pure maple syrup. Right in here.”
Thus spoke Dan Baker, the old trouper. He had lost, perhaps forever, his one chance for fame and fortune. But he had not lost his heart of gold.
* * * * * * * *