Canby knew that she was not to be "on" again until
the next act, and he followed a desperate impulse.
"See a person," he mumbled, and went out through the lobby,
turned south to the cross-street, proceeded thereby to the
stage-door of the theatre, and resolutely crossed the path of
the distrustful man who lounged there.
"Here!" called the distrustful man.
"I'm with the show," said Canby, an expression foreign to his
lips and a clear case of inspiration. The distrustful man waved
him on.
Wanda Malone was leaning against the wall at the other end of
the passageway, studying her manuscript. She did not look up
until he paused beside her.
"Miss Malone," he began. "I have come--I have come--I have-ah--"
These were his first words to her. She did nothing more than
look at him inquiringly, but with such radiance that he
floundered to a stop. There were only two things within his
power to do: he had either to cough or to speak much too
sweetly.
"There's a draught here," she said, Christian anxiety roused by
the paroxysm which rescued him from the damning alternative.
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