"You got left behind and were frightened," he asked and answered in same breath. "I knew it-I told 'em all so. Then some of the ushers took you back and let you out of the stage door. Silly, to get alarmed over a little thing like that. But I couldn't talk to Mrs. Markin-she was almost in hysterics. We'd better hurry back to relieve her suspense."

"I should not have delayed talking, but really I was so-so frightened,"

ventured Dorothy.

"Cert you were. Well, you just let me tell the story. It will save lots of trouble, but of course the girls will have to know all about the people you met-behind the scenes."

Was ever there such a blessed boy as Nat? Here he had nicely explained all Dorothy's troubles and in the simplest manner possible. How splendid boy cousins are, thought Dorothy. They have such a power of sympathy for girls-better than brothers-if girls would only allow them to exercise it-in a cousinly way.

Or did Nat know of Dorothy's deliberate visit to the little actress who had played Katherine? Perhaps some one had told him his cousin was in the dressing room and he had just waited for her to appear at the stage door.

Dorothy was sure Nat would save her from making any troublesome explanations, and when he asked her, in the most matter-of-fact way if she happened to meet the girl with the brown hair who looked so much like Tavia, she had no hesitation in telling him that she was Miss Riceman, and that she was a most charming young lady.

"She doesn't look a bit like Tavia-close by," added Dorothy, remembering the scene in the dressing room. "She is as refined and polite as possible. She showed me the way out."

After telling that much of her adventure to Nat, Dorothy was well prepared to repeat the story to the others, without fear of disclosing the real object of her visit behind the scenes.

When Mrs. Markin was finally a.s.sured of Dorothy's safety, and had actually listened with interest to her recital of the trip into stageland, and her encounters there, the matter was regarded as an incident fraught with untold curious bits of "real live adventure." Girls do delight in investigating and exploring the unusual quite as much as boys do, although the latter are p.r.o.ne to attribute that faculty to themselves as something patented.

So it happens that when a girl does actually have an experience she and her companions know how to appreciate the novelty. That was how it turned out with Dorothy and her friends. Rose-Mary and Alma couldn't hear enough of "behind the scenes" and Alma ventured to ask Dorothy to take them in through the stage door to make a second call on Miss Riceman, when she might introduce her friends to a real actress.

But Dorothy tried to appease their curiosity as best she could, telling over and over again how she got lost in the crowd, how the usher accosted her, and led her to the stage, and then how she got confused in her effort to find the "right door" (which was all true enough) and how it was then that Miss Riceman came out and invited Dorothy in. Then she related how she became faint and told of the water being brought, and so on, until the very closing of the stage door after her when she found herself in the alley with Nat at her side.

But now Dorothy was about to enter upon a delicate and what might prove to be a difficult adventure. She had to go to the manager's office the next afternoon, but beyond that point, she dared not trust herself to think or plan. When night came, and all seemed to be asleep Dorothy, in her room in the big hotel, had a chance to look the situation squarely in the face.

"One thought I must keep before me," she told herself. "I am bound to find Tavia and save her. To do this I will have to take great risks, and perhaps be very much misunderstood, but I must do it. Her risk is even greater than mine and if I appear to deceive people-even dear, good, thoughtful Nat,-I must do so to continue my search."

Then the girl, with aching head, planned how she could get away to see the theatrical manager the next day. She would not pretend to have any plans made for going out, and then, just before the hour Miss Riceman had told her the manager's office would be open, she would announce that she wanted to get some souvenirs of Buffalo to take home with her. This, she decided, would give her an opportunity to hurry away alone.

But, oh, how she dreaded to face that manager! If it were only a woman who was in charge of the office, but a man! And she had heard vague stories of how dreadfully rude some managers were to persons who bothered them. There were so many questions she would have to ask-enough to put any manager into bad humor she thought-and perhaps there would be young girls there like Tavia looking for engagements-they would overhear what she had to say. Oh, it was dreadful, the more she thought of it!

Dorothy buried her head deeper into the pillow and tried to sleep. She felt that she must get some rest or she would not be able to carry on the work that demanded so much of her strength, her brains and her courage.

She needed them all now to follow up the clue of Tavia's whereabouts given by Miss Riceman.

It was almost morning when Dorothy fell into an unquiet sleep, and it was glaring daylight, with the sun streaming into her window, when she awoke.

Rose-Mary was moving about the room on tip-toe after some things, feeling the necessity of allowing Dorothy all possible rest, as she had appeared so exhausted after her experience of the previous day.

"I'm so sorry you are going away to-morrow," spoke Rose-Mary, seeing that Dorothy was awake. "This is the last day we will have together for some time. I have enjoyed your visit so much."

"I'm afraid I've been rather stupid," apologized Dorothy, feeling as if she must make some excuse for her seeming indifference to Rose-Mary's entertainment. "But, Cologne dear, I can never tell you how grateful I am for this chance to see Buffalo. It seems as if I had really entered a new world since I came into this big city."

"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed everything, dear," said Rose-Mary. "But you must rest to-day and not go sight-seeing any more. You will need to be fresh for your auto trip to-morrow morning."

"Oh, yes, I'll rest to-day," replied Dorothy, as she slipped into her dressing-gown and approached the dresser. There she found a dainty array of remembrances Cologne had selected for her to take home. This was a surprise and it told Dorothy more plainly than words could, that Rose-Mary loved her, and so loved to make her happy.

There were some exquisite bits of undecorated china for Dorothy to add to her collection of hand-painted pieces, there was a "darling" little traveling mirror from Mrs. Markin, and Jack, who would not be left out in spite of his sister's protestations that a strange young man could not give a young lady a present even if it was a sort of souvenir of Buffalo, had made Rose-Mary place on the table with the other tokens a cute little pocket camera. He secretly hoped his sister would just hint to Dorothy that he had selected it.

Such an array quite overpowered Dorothy and she threw her arms about Rose-Mary's neck and cried as if her heart would break.

She calmed down after a while, but even when she and Rose-Mary were dressed the two had little spells of weeping at the thought of parting.

Jack peeped in at the door, but when he saw his sister and Dorothy in an embrace, with tears in their eyes, he hurried away, muttering something about "fool girls crying when they're happy," and he "guessed he wouldn't hang around to spoil their fun, if that was what they called a merry time."

So the two girls were left to themselves to exchange confidences and talk over their fall meeting at Glenwood when school should begin again.

Time managed to slip around quickly that day, and, when afternoon came, Dorothy began to get nervous about her prospective visit to the manager's office. It would surely seem rude to leave Rose-Mary alone, but nothing must deter her from carrying out her plan-no, not even the displeasure of her friends, and this was no small matter to Dorothy when she faced it-she who made such firm friendships when she did make them, and who was always an example of good breeding and politeness.

When her valise had been packed, so that the entire evening might be left for pleasure, and Nat and Ned had appeared from their quarters to make final arrangements about coming for Dorothy directly after breakfast, she glanced at her watch and found it lacked just half an hour of five o'clock! The boys were engaged in an argument with Rose-Mary, as to the relative beauty of Boston and New York, Ned holding that a Battery and a Bowery made New York the winner.

Suddenly Dorothy jumped up from the porch chair where she had been sitting.

"I believe I'll just run down town to get some more souvenir postal cards," she said bravely, as she started to leave the veranda. She had her purse in her hand, and there was no need to wear a hat.

"Why?" asked Cologne in natural surprise. "I thought you had plenty."

Nat saw the flush of color that came into Dorothy's cheeks.

"And I'm with you!" he declared, getting up from his place and a.s.sisting his cousin down the steps. "So long," he called back. "Do the best you can, Ned. I'll be back directly. Just want to make sure that Doro doesn't fall by the wayside again," and at that the two cousins bolted off laughing, Dorothy having recovered her composure when she saw how quickly Nat came to her relief. Ned and Rose-Mary were taken so by surprise at the sudden move that they seemed dazed, and the look on their faces at the bolt of the two only made the departing ones more merry.

"Nat," said Dorothy as they turned the corner, "I really wanted to go to some place-"

"Go ahead then," he answered, "only, Doro, you know Ned and I are responsible for you and you had best tell me about it. You know I won't interfere-only to be sure it's all right."

"Nat, you are such a good cousin," began Dorothy.

"Good?" echoed Nat. "Why, you don't say so? Make a note of that and tell the others-they would never believe me. There, did you see that streak of sunshine stick to my brow? It was a halo, sure thing. But, I say, what are you going to do, anyhow?"

"To look for Tavia," replied Dorothy miserably.

"Thought so. But where is the looking to be done this time?"

"I thought I would inquire at the office of the theatre. They might happen to know something."

"All right, come along. I'll wait outside. Theatre people, especially managers and those in the office, are usually very busy and won't keep you long."

This was said with all possible kindness, but, somehow, it gave Dorothy a cold chill. She was so afraid of facing the manager. Oh, if she only could let Nat go in with her! But that would not be fair to Tavia, whose secret, if she ever discovered it, she determined to keep inviolate. She must do it alone, and do it secretly to save Tavia from the possible consequences of her folly, should it turn out that she really was with a company "on the road."

One more block and Nat and Dorothy were in front of the theatre where they had attended the play the day before. They stood before the great open lobby, empty now save for a few workmen who were busy with mops scrubbing the tiled marble floor. Nat took Dorothy's arm.

"There's the office of the manager, right over there," he said, indicating a small door that bore no mark to distinguish it from many others that opened from the foyer. "I'll wait here for you. Now, don't be afraid to push yourself up front if there's a crowd waiting for him. We haven't any too much time."

With all the courage that Dorothy could summon to her aid she walked up to the little door, opened it and stepped inside a little ante-room. She was in the manager's office, and the presence of several other persons, who turned to stare at her did not serve to put her at her ease.

CHAPTER XX DOROTHY AND THE MANAGER

Dorothy sank into a chair near the door. Two or three important-looking women were moving about restlessly, awaiting their turn to pa.s.s beyond the portal guarded by a stout youth, and face the manager in his private rooms. Others, younger and more timid, sat quite still in their chairs, as did Dorothy, and the girl could imagine that they were silently praying for success in the prospective interview with one who might decide their fate. Dorothy seemed beyond thinking consistently about her own circ.u.mstances; she just sat there and waited. The youth at the door of the private office looked at her sharply. Doubtless he was wondering whether she had an appointment, or whether she was one to be allowed to enter out of her turn because of some "pull."