Then Vickery called him to where Sheila, having rid herself of her admirers, was making ready to leave the stage.
“Miss Kemble, I want to present my old friend, Mr. Bret Winfield. He’s been dying to meet you again for a long while.”
“Again?” thought Sheila, but she said, as if to her oldest friend: “Oh, I’m delighted! I haven’t seen you since—since— Chicago, wasn’t it?”
Vickery laughed and explained: “Guess again! You’ve met before, but you were never introduced.”
Slowly Sheila understood. She stared up at Winfield and cried, “This isn’t the man who—”
“I’m the little fellow,” said Winfield, enfolding her hand in a clasp like a boxing-glove. “I scared you pretty badly, I’m afraid. But Vickery tells me he told you my intentions were honorable. I’ve come to apologize.”
“Oh, please don’t! I’m the one that ought to. I made an awful idiot of myself; but, you see, I was afraid you were going to—to—well, kidnap me.”
“I wish I could now!”
“Kidnap me?” Sheila gasped with a startled frown-smile, drawing her brows down and her lips up.