XI.
At eleven o'clock that night Glory was putting on her hat and cloak to return home when the call-boy came to the dressing-room door to say that the stage manager was waiting to see her. With a little catch, in her breath, and then with a tightening of the heart-strings, she followed him to the stage manager's office. It was a stuffy place over the porter's lodge, approached by a flight of circular iron stairs and lumbered with many kinds of theatrical property.
“Come in, my dear,” said the stage manager, and pushing away some models of scenery he made room for her on a sofa which stood by a fast-dying fire. Then shutting the door, he bobbed his head at her and winked with both eyes, and said in a familiar whisper:
“It's all right, my dear. I've settled that little matter for you.”
“Do you mean——” began Glory, and then she waited with parted lips.
“It's as good as done, my dear. Sit down.” Glory had risen in her excitement. “Sit down and I'll tell you everything.”
He had spoken to his management. “Gentlemen,” he had said, “unless I'm mistaken I've found a prize.” They had laughed. He was always finding prizes. But he knew what he was talking about, and they had given him carte blanche.
“You think there is really some likelihood, then——” began Glory, with the catch in her breath again, for her throat was thick and her breast was heaving.