dined hastily and come all the way down-town to see Le Mire; they
waited for her for two hours and a half in stuffy theater seats,
and Le Mire did not appear.

The announcement was finally made by the manager of the theater
at a little before eleven-o'clock. He could not understand, he
said--the poor fellow was on the point of wringing his hands with
agitation and despair--he could not understand why the dancer did
not arrive.

She had rehearsed in the theater on the previous Thursday
afternoon, and had then seemed to have every intention of
fulfilling her engagement. No one connected with the theater had
seen her since that time, but everything had gone smoothly; they
had had no reason to fear such a contretemps as her
nonappearance.

They had sent to her hotel; she was gone, bag and baggage. She
had departed on Friday, leaving no word as to her destination.
They had asked the police, the hotels, the railroads, the
steamship companies--and could find no trace of her.

The manager only hoped--he hoped with all his heart--that his
frank and unreserved explanation would appease his kind patrons
and prevent their resentment; that they would understand--

I made my way out of the theater as rapidly as possible, with
Billy Du Mont at my side, and started north on Broadway.

My companion was laughing unrestrainedly.