There was a light on in Katherine Nelson’s dressing room. The door was ajar, and from where Peggy stood she could see the star sitting in front of her make-up table, her head buried in her hands. As Peggy watched, Katherine Nelson drew her hands from her face and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Peggy saw that she had been crying.
It was an embarrassing moment. Peggy didn’t know whether to make her presence known or remain hidden in the shadows of the darkened stage. As she hesitated in momentary indecision, the heavy iron stage door leading to the street banged open, and for a second or two winter roared into the theater. The door clanged shut and footsteps shuffled up the passageway. In her dressing room, Katherine Nelson jumped to her feet and came out into the backstage area. “Who’s there?” she cried sharply.
“It’s all right, miss,” came a voice.
The next instant Peggy saw a large, craggy policeman step into the circle of light. With one hand he brushed away the snow clinging to his uniform. His other hand clutched a small boy, who seemed to be staring around in expectant wonder. Peggy recognized the little boy at once. It was Tommy Stanton.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the policeman said, touching his hat. “But where would I find a Mr. Armour?”
With one hand, the policeman clutched a small boy.
“Mr. Armour?” Katherine Nelson answered vacantly. “Nobody by that name here.”
The policeman bent down and addressed his charge. “You see, son?” he asked kindly. “You must have made a mistake.”
“No, sir,” the boy said in a clear, emphatic voice, “I know him.” He looked at Katherine Nelson curiously. “Are you one of the queens?” he asked.