of the orchestra, the graciousness of the other players on the bill, the solicitous manager, the houseboards out front which bore his name. That afternoon, Ed Fein berg had come backstage after their act and had opened a bottle of Scotch, drinking a toast to their success. Anita had been rather moody. She had sipped her drink slowly. When the agent left her dressing-room, she had turned to Ken: "Let's go to the hotel. We've got lots to talk about," she'd said.
That was how it had begun.
Now as he anxiously searched for her, he thought of the months during which they had slaved to win this engagement in the big time. They had gone without food, they had worn their bodies thin; what had they not done so that they might quit the mean world of furnished rooms, cafeteria meals and petty debts?
Ken re-entered the theatre.
"Ready?" asked the dapper little stage manager.
"Miss Rogers isn't in yet."
Through the fire door leading to the auditorium came Ed Feinberg. He seized Ken's hand and shook it.
"I got Jerry Buckley, the big booker, outside tonight. Tell Nita to give her all."
"She isn't here," Ken said colorlessly.
The stage manager leaped up the stairs.
"I'll put the Flying Dooleys in this spot," he yelled to the head carpenter. "Lower the trapeze and rings after this act."
"Where is she?" cried the agent. "When did you see her last?"
"At eight o'clock. But wait—I'll go on alone."
"The good-for-nothing gutter tart," cried Feinberg, his face purple. "She's gone and done it again."
