The middle-aged youth looked pained.
“I regret to say,” he answered, “that Miss Carroll seems to have lost her grip on that scene. She’s all right in the rest of the play, but—but I tell you, sergeant, she can do it—she has done it equal to any of ’em—and she can do it again.”
Miss Carroll ran forward, glowing and palpitating.
“Thank you, Jimmy, for the first good word I’ve had in many a day,” she cried. And then she turned her eager face toward the desk.
“I’ll show you, sergeant, whether I am to blame. I’ll show them whether I can do that same. Come, Mr. Delmars, let us begin. You will let us, won’t you, sergeant?”’
“How long will it take?” asked the sergeant, dubiously.
“Eight minutes,” said the playwright. “The entire play consumes but thirty.”
“You may go ahead,” said the sergeant. “Most of you seem to side against the little lady. Maybe she had a right to crack up a saucer or two in that restaurant. We’ll see how she does the turn before we take that up.”
The matron of the police station had been standing near, listening to the singular argument. She came nigher and stood near the sergeant’s chair. Two or three of the reserves strolled in, big and yawning.
“Before beginning the scene,” said the playwright, “and assuming that you have not seen a production of ‘A Gay Coquette,’ I will make a brief but necessary explanation. It is a musical-farce-comedy—burlesque-
