"Oh, thank you," she replied, with a long-drawn sigh. "The gentleman is my father. I am very anxious about him. I fear he is ill."
"Would you like me to go and see why he has not returned?" I asked.
"If you would be so kind," she answered, eagerly.
I rose, and went out into the lobbies. I went quickly to the gentlemen's cloak-room, and put some questions to the attendant.
"'Is there an elderly gentleman here?' I asked."
"Is there an elderly gentleman here?" I asked—"tall, with white hair and a somewhat dark complexion. He left the theatre half an hour ago, and his daughter is afraid that he has been taken ill."
The man who had charge of the room knew nothing about him, but another attendant who was standing near suddenly remarked:—
"I think I know the gentleman you mean. He is not ill."
"How can you tell?" I replied.
"Well, about half an hour ago a man answering exactly to your description came out of the theatre. He came from the dress circle. He asked for a cigar, and lighted it. I lost sight of him immediately afterwards, but I think he went out."
I returned to give this information to the anxious girl. To my surprise it did not at all comfort her.
"He must be ill," she replied. "He would not leave me alone if he were not ill. I noticed that an attack was coming on. He is subject to attacks of a serious character. They are of the nature of fits, and they are dangerous, very dangerous."
"If he were ill," I replied, "he would have sent you word in here, and have got you to go to him. He may merely have gone out to get a little air, which relieves him."
"I do not know. Perhaps," she replied.
"And when he is at home," I continued, "if he really has gone home without you, he will naturally send at once for a doctor."
She shook her head when I made this last remark.
"My father will never see a doctor," she said; "he hates the medical profession. He does not believe in doctors. He has such a prejudice against them, that he would rather die than consult one."
"That is a pity," I answered, "for in cases like his, I have no doubt that there is much alleviation to be obtained from men who really understand the science of medicine."
She looked fixedly at me when I said this. Her face was quite piteous in its anxiety. I could see that she was very young, but her features looked small and drawn now, and her eyes almost too large for her little face.
"I am very anxious," she said, with a sigh. "My father is the only relation I possess; I am his only child. He is ill—I know he is very ill. I am most anxious."
She pulled her opera-cloak once more tightly about her, and looked with lack-lustre eyes on the stage. Our conversation had been so low that no one had been disturbed by it; we were obliged to keep our heads close together as we conversed, and once, I am sure, her golden hair must have touched my cheek.
"I cannot stand this any longer," she exclaimed, suddenly. "I must go out—I won't wait for the end of the play.
She rose as she spoke, and I followed her,
