Darkness had fallen when Florence stepped from the theatre, just one week later. Rehearsal had started at five on that afternoon. Two members of the cast had found it impossible to be there at an earlier hour. Once into the swing of the thing, they had worked on and on quite unconscious of the fleeing hours.

She shuddered a little as she closed the door behind her. In her right hand was her leather Boston bag. As upon other occasions, a short chain, running through two rings at the top of the bag, held it tight shut. The ends of the chain were united by a stout little padlock.
255

Strong custodian of his Highness, the God of Fire, she peered through the darkness, looking north and south for a cab. Her brow wrinkled. On entering the building that night she had spied two dark-faced men loitering outside.

“And it’s important,” she told herself, setting her lips tight. “Very, very important.”

She was thinking of the strange God of Fire. Many times his story had been told that week. On the dramatic pages of daily papers and even in one magazine his ugly face had appeared. And always beside him, as if for contrast, was the lovely face and figure of the “sweetest dancer of all time,” Petite Jeanne.

“Day after to-morrow is the night of nights.” She caught her breath. How much it meant to them all; to Angelo, to Swen, to Dan Baker, to Petite Jeanne and to all the rest.

This night they had held dress rehearsal. And it had been such a glorious affair! She had not dreamed that such a multitude of lovely scenes and heavenly melodies could be packed into two short hours. Everyone, from Solomon, the manager, to the least and youngest of the chorus, was jubilant. They were made! In a lean year they would score a triumph. The thing would run for months. They would ride in taxis and find flowers in their dressing rooms each night.
256

“But I must not dream.” Shaking herself free from these thoughts, Florence tucked a small package securely under her arm. Then picking up the bag she stepped out.

She must find a cab for the little French girl. Still warm from exercise and excitement, Jeanne must not be exposed to the night’s damp chill.

No cab was in sight. “Must go round the corner and call one.”

She was about to do so when, with the suddenness of thought, a terrible thing happened. Springing from the shadows of a great pillar, two short, dark men dashed at her. Ten seconds of mad tussle in which her dress was torn, her arm wrenched, and her cheeks bruised, and they were away—with the leather bag!
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