In a long coat of tan silk and a red-plumed hat, she
bounded before the desk.
"It's not my fault," she cried indignantly. "How dare they say such
a thing! I've played the title role ever since it was staged, and if
you want to know who made it a success, ask the public--that's all."
"What Miss Carroll says is true in part," said the author. "For five
months the comedietta was a drawing-card in the best houses. But
during the last two weeks it has lost favour. There is one scene in
it in which Miss Carroll made a big hit. Now she hardly gets a hand
out of it. She spoils it by acting it entirely different from her old
way."
"It is not my fault," reiterated the actress.
"There are only two of you on in the scene," argued the playwright
hotly, "you and Delmars, here--"
"Then it's his fault," declared Miss Carroll, with a lightning glance
of scorn from her dark eyes. The comedian caught it, and gazed with
increased melancholy at the panels of the sergeant's desk.
The night was a dull one in that particular police station.
The sergeant's long-blunted curiosity awoke a little.
"I've heard you," he said to the author. And then he addressed the
thin-faced and ascetic-looking lady of the company who played "Aunt
Turnip-top" in the little comedy.
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