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She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. Her gaze flickered down to his pistol. “Please go and see that—nothing happens,” she pleaded. The door closed upon her, and he moved reluctantly away. She moved a little nearer to him. A wooden balcony in one of the adjoining houses was thronged with ladies, all of whom appeared to take a lively interest in the scene, and to be full of commiseration for the criminal, not, perhaps, unmixed with admiration of his appearance. “Do not look so uncomfortable, both of you,” she begged.
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