CHAPTER XXII
THE ARMORED HORSE
As for Jeanne, once more dressed as Pierre and feeling like just no one at all, she had gone wandering away into the shadows of the orchestra floor, when suddenly she started. Someone had touched her arm.
Until this moment she had quite forgotten the lone auditor seated there in the dark. Now as she bent low to look into that person’s face she started again as a name came to her lips.
“Rosemary Robinson!”
“It is I,” Rosemary whispered. “I saw it all, Pierre.” She held Jeanne’s hand in a warm grasp. “You were wonderful! Simply magnificent! And the director. He was beastly!”
“No! No!” Jeanne protested. “He was but doing his duty.”
“This,” Rosemary replied slowly, “may be true. But for all that you are a marvelous ‘Juggler of Notre Dame.’ And it is too bad he found out.
“But come!” she whispered eagerly, springing to her feet. “Why weep when there is so much to be glad about? Let us go exploring!
“My father,” she explained, “has done much for this place. I have the keys to every room. There are many mysteries. You shall see some of them.”
Seizing Jeanne’s hand, she led the way along a corridor, down two gloomy flights of stairs and at last into a vast place where only here and there a light burned dimly.