Tab, notebook in hand, wrote rapidly as the old man translated.
“Thank you, sir,” he said when the other had finished.
There was an odd smirk of satisfaction on the old man’s face, a strange, childlike pride in his accomplishment.
“You have a remarkable knowledge of the language,” said Tab, politely.
“Born there,” replied Jesse Trasmere, complacently, “born in a godown on the Amur River and could speak the three dialects before I was six. Beat the whole lot of ’em at their own books when I was so high! That all, mister?”
“That is all, and thank you,” said Tab gravely, and lifted his hat.
He stood looking after the old man as he continued his walk. So that was Rex Lander’s miserly uncle? He did not look like a millionaire and yet, when he came to consider the matter, millionaires seldom looked their wealth.
He had settled the matter of the Wing Su proclamation and was immersed in a new prison report which had been published that day when he remembered an item of news which had come his way and duly reported.
“Sorry, Tab,” said the night editor, “the theatre man has ’flu. Won’t you go along and see the lady?”
Tab snorted, but went.
The dresser, hesitating, thought that Miss Ardfern was rather tired, and wouldn’t tomorrow do?
“I’m tired, too,” said Tab Holland wearily, “and tell Miss Ardfern that I haven’t come to this darned theatre at eleven p.m. because I’m an autograph hunter, or because I’m collecting pictures of actresses I’m crazy about; I’m here in the sacred cause of publicity.”
To the dresser, he was as a man who spoke a foreign language. Surveying him dubiously, she turned the handle of the stained yellow door, and standing in the opening, talked to somebody invisible.
Tab had a glimpse of cretonne hangings, yawned and scratched his head. He was not without elegance, except in moments of utter tiredness.
“You can come in,” said the dresser and Tab passed into a room that blazed with unshaded lights.
Ursula Ardfern had made her change and was ready to leave the theatre except that her jacket was still hung on the back of one chair, and her cloth cloak with the blue satin lining was draped over another. She had in her hand a brooch which she was about to put into an open jewel-case. Tab particularly noticed the brooch. A heart-shaped ruby was its centrepiece. He saw her pin it to the soft lining of the lid and close the case.
“I’m extremely sorry to worry you at this hour of the night, Miss Ardfern,” he said apologetically, “and if you’re annoyed with me, you have my passionate sympathy. And if you’re not mad at me, I’d be glad of a little sympathy myself, for I’ve been in court all day following the Lachmere fraud trial.”
She had been a little annoyed. The set of her pretty face told him that when he came in.
“And now you’ve come for another trial,” she half-smiled. “What can I do for you, Mr.—?”
“Holland—Somers Holland of The Megaphone. The theatre reporter is sick and we got a rumor tonight from two independent sources that you are to be married.”
“And you came to tell me! Now, isn’t that kind of you!” she mocked. “No, I am not going to be married. I don’t think I ever shall marry, but you need not put that in the newspaper, or people will think I am posing as an eccentric. Who is the lucky man, by-the-way?”
“That is the identical question that I have come to ask,” Tab smiled.
“I am disappointed,” her lips twitched. “But I am not marrying. Don’t say that I am wedded to my art, because I’m not, and please don’t say that there is an old boy and girl courtship that will one day materialize, because there isn’t. I just know nobody that I ever wanted to marry and if I did, I shouldn’t marry him. Is that all?”
“That’s about all, Miss Ardfern,” said Tab. “I’m really sorry to have troubled you. I always say that to people I trouble, but this time I mean it.”
“How did this information reach you?” she asked as she rose.
Tab’s frown was involuntary.
“From a—a friend of mine,” he said. “It is the first piece of news that he has ever given to me and it is wrong. Goodnight, Miss Ardfern.” His hand gripped hers and she winced.
“I’m sorry!” He was all apologies and confusion.
“You’re very strong!” she smiled, rubbing her hand, “and you aren’t very well acquainted with us fragile women—didn’t you say your name is Holland? Are you ‘Tab’ Holland?”
Tab coloured. It wasn’t like Tab to feel, much less display, embarrassment.
“Why ‘Tab’?” she asked, her blue eyes dancing.
“It is an office nickname,” he explained awkwardly, “the boys say that I’ve a passion for making my exit on a good line. Really, I believe it is the line on which a curtain falls. You’ll understand that, Miss Ardfern, it is one of the conventions of the drama.”
“A tab-line?” she said. “I have heard about you. I remember now. It was a man who was in the company I played with—Milton Braid.”
“He was a reporter before he fell—before he went on to the stage,” said Tab.
He was not a theatre man and knew none of its disciples. This was the second actress he had met in his twenty-six years of life, and she was unexpectedly human. That she was also remarkably pretty he accepted without surprise. Actresses ought to be beautiful, even Ursula Ardfern, who was a great actress, if he accepted the general verdict of the press and the ecstatic and prejudiced opinion of Rex Lander. But she had a sense of humour; a curious possession in an emotional actress, if he could believe all that he had read on the subject. She had grace and youth and naturalness. He would willingly have stayed, but she was unmistakably ending the interview.
“Goodnight, Mr. Holland.”
He took her hand again, this time more
