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Updated: June 10, 2025
Beth Norvell turned about in dismay, her eyes pleading, her breath quickening. "You mean we are shut in here for the night? Is n't there any way leading out?" "Oh, si, si," and Mercedes smiled, waving her hands. "Zar is vay yonder vare de orchestra goes. Eet leads to de hall; I show you." "Did he know?" "Vat? Señor Farnham? No doubt, señorita. Come, eet ees but de step."
The girl caught her breath sharply, her hand pressed tightly against her side. "What what was it you desired of Beth Norvell?" she questioned. Farnham's white teeth gleamed in a sudden smile of appreciation. "Hope you are not becoming jealous," he said insinuatingly. "Positively no occasion, I assure you, for it was not to make love to the girl, I wanted to see her. Lord, no!
The only son of Colonel Winston, the wealthy banker of Denver, honors Miss Norvell, actress, and she, of course, feels highly grateful!" "Beth, stop!" His voice was indignantly earnest. "It is not that; you must know it is not that!"
Any vengeful blow which should make her a widow would as certainly separate the slayer from her forever. Unavoidably though it might occur, the act was one never to be forgiven by Beth Norvell, never to be blotted from her remembrance. Winston appreciated this as though a sudden flash-light had been turned upon his soul.
She 'fraid for ever'ting, but most I tink, she 'fraid for you, señor." Miss Norvell hastily laid her hand upon the girl's sleeve in remonstrance, her face showing grave in the dim light. "No, no, Mercedes; you must not say too much, or Mr. Winston will think us both very foolish." "Eet vas not foolish for us to vant to know, vas eet, señor?" "Assuredly not."
The chalk mark designating where it belonged read "Dressing-room No. 2," and, instead of rolling it roughly in that direction, as he had rolled numerous others, the new utility man lifted it carefully upon his shoulder and deposited it gently against the farther wall. He glanced with curiosity about the restricted apartment to which Miss Beth Norvell had been assigned.
"Ah, Merciful Mother! so my ver' fine lady has found herself a lofer here already. Sapristi, an' he is well worth lookin' at! I vill ask of de stage manager his name." Outside, beneath the faint glimmer of the stars, Winston offered his arm, and Miss Norvell accepted it silently.
He was off at a run, slamming the door heavily behind him, and plunging headlong into the black street. As he disappeared, Miss Norvell sank back into the vacated chair, and sat there breathing heavily, her eyes fastened upon the drunken man opposite, her natural coolness and resource slowly emerging from out the haze of disappointment.
Dunder! vat you vant an angel? You don't hafe to take dot bart mit me, or Meester Lane either, don 't it, hey?" Miss Norvell turned contemptuously away from him, her face white with determination. "If you really want to know, there is only one man in all your troupe I would consent to play it with," she declared calmly. "Und dot is?"
Miss Norvell, her fingers clasping the chair arm for support, rose hurriedly to her feet, a red flush sweeping into her pallid cheeks. For an instant her intense indignation held her speechless. "'Throw' me? What is it you mean?" she exclaimed, her voice faltering. "Do you rank me with those shameless creatures out yonder? It is for Mr.
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