cause we remonstrated with her for spoiling the scene, Miss———”
“It’s not true, sergeant,” cried the clear voice of Miss Clarice Carroll. In a long coat of tan silk and a red-plumed hat, she bounded before the desk.
“It’s not my fault,” she cried indignantly. “How dare they say such a thing! I’ve played the title rôle ever since it was staged, and if you want to know who made it a success, ask the public—that’s all.”
“What Miss Carroll says is true in part,” said the author. “For five months the comedietta was a drawing card in the best houses. But during the last two weeks it has lost favour. There is one scene in it in which Miss Carroll made a big hit. Now she hardly gets a hand out of it. She spoils it by acting it entirely different from her old way.”
“It is not my fault,” reiterated the actress.
“There are only two of you on in the scene,” argued the playwright hotly, “you and Delmars, here———”
“Then it’s his fault,” declared Miss Carroll, with a lightning glance of scorn from her dark eyes. The comedian caught it, and gazed with increased melancholy at the panels of the sergeant’s desk.
The night was a dull one in that particular police station.
The sergeant’s long-blunted curiosity awoke a little.
“I’ve heard you,” he said to the author. And then he addressed the thin-faced and ascetic-looking lady of
