That was the situation when, one night late in October, the trap of
Bassett's devising began to close in. It had been raining, but in spite
of that they had sold standing room to the fire limit. Having got the
treasurer's report on the night's business and sent it to Beverly's
dressing-room, Gregory wandered into his small, low-ceiled office
under the balcony staircase, and closing the door sat down. It was the
interval after the second act, and above the hum of voices outside the
sound of the orchestra penetrated faintly.
He was entirely serene. He had a supper engagement after the show,
he had a neat car waiting outside to take him to it, and the night's
business had been extraordinary. He consulted his watch and then picked
up an evening paper. A few moments later he found himself reading over
and over a small notice inserted among the personals.
"Personal: Jean Melis, who was in Norada, Wyoming, during the early fall
of 1911 please communicate with L 22, this office."
The orchestra was still playing outside; the silly, giggling crowds were
moving back to their seats, and somewhere Jean Melis, or the friends of
Jean Melis, who would tell him of it, were reading that message.
He got his hat and went out, forgetful of the neat car at the curb, of
the supper engagement, of the night's business, and wandered down the
street through the rain. But his first uneasiness passed quickly. He
saw Bassett in the affair, and probably Clark himself, still living
and tardily determined to clear his name. But if the worst came to the
worst, what could they do? They could go only so far, and then they
would have to quit.
It would be better, however, if they did not see Melis. Much better;
there was no use involving a simple situation. And Bev could be kept out
of it altogether, until it was over. Ashamed of his panic he went back
to the theater, got a railway schedule and looked up trains. He should
have done it long before, he recognized, have gone to Bassett in the
spring. But how could he have known then that Bassett was going to make
a life-work of the case?
He had only one uncertainty. Suppose that Bassett had learned about
Clifton Hines?
By the time the curtain rang down on the last act he was his dapper,
debonair self again, made his supper engagement, danced half the night,
and even dozed a little on the way home. But he slept badly and was up
early, struggling with the necessity for keeping Jean Melis out of the
way.