Scene Three. That’s what we’re starting on in the next rehearsal

tomorrow night.”

That settled, they turned their attention to coffee and cake, and their conversation to the five-thousand-dollar investment and what they would do with it—as if, Peggy thought, it had been the least important part of the busy evening’s events!

VII An Intermission

It was a good thing, Peggy thought, that she was going to the New York Dramatic Academy and not to a more conventional kind of school. Mr. Macaulay, the director of the Academy, approved of his students’ taking part in off-Broadway plays, and made certain concessions to those who were doing so, such as excusing them from school plays. While this eliminated the necessity of learning the lines of two plays at once, and also gave Peggy more free time than the other students, it did not excuse her from her regular school work.

She attended classes in History of the Theater, Elizabethan Playwrights, Restoration Drama, Acting for the Camera, Ballet and Modern Dance, and Make-up Techniques.

It was a full schedule all by itself.

But, of course, it wasn’t all by itself. Classes filled the day from nine in the morning till three in the afternoon, and rehearsals began at six in the evening at the Penthouse Theater and ran on to midnight. On Saturdays, rehearsals and scene painting and construction filled the day from nine to six. This grueling schedule left Peggy only three hours each day to study for her classes at the Academy and to learn her lines for _Come Closer_, and practically no time except Sundays for such things as hair washing, personal laundry, letter writing and all the other things that usually seem to take no time at all because they are spread through the week.

Sometimes she wondered how she would ever do it all. But other times she wondered how she could ever again enjoy a life that was less full, less active, less exciting. She was very busy, and very, very happy.

Now it was a few minutes past six on a Saturday evening, and she and Amy were carefully washing the paint from their hands and faces. Peggy leaned across the basin, very close to the mirror, for a minute inspection, found one last little spot of green on the lobe of her ear, and carefully removed it.

“I think I’m all clean,” she said. “How about you?”

“Just a few more spots,” Amy answered. “Then I’ll inspect you and you inspect me.”

“Oh, we don’t need to be that thorough,” Peggy said. “If we hurry, we’ll have plenty of time for baths at home before the boys come to pick us up.”

“I would surely like to know what you call plenty of time,” Amy laughed. “The boys are coming for us in two hours, and we have to face the Saturday night line-up at the bathrooms, which can be worse than waiting for tickets at a World Series game!”

“No, the worst is over by now,” Peggy said. “I happen to know that Irene, the Beautiful Model, has a date picking her up at six-thirty, which means that she’s climbing out of the tub right now. Greta is staying home tonight, which means she’ll let us have the bath first. Dot is out of town, so that just leaves us, Gaby and Maggie to share the two baths. I think we’ll make it!”

“You have it planned like a general!” Amy said. “I salute you.”

“Right down to the camouflage!” Peggy laughed in answer. “Mine is the dark blue cocktail dress. What are you wearing to divert the troops?”

“A print,” Amy said, with an unusual air of decision for a girl who could never make up her mind about what to wear until the last possible minute. “The only thing I haven’t decided yet,” she added, “is whether to wear my print with the three-quarter sleeves, or yours with the cap sleeves, or Maggie’s sleeveless chiffon. What do you think?”

“Why not wear any one of them, and take the other two in a little suitcase?” Peggy teased. “Then you can change during the evening and keep us in a constant state of surprise!”

By this time, they had finished washing, had changed from their stagehands’ coveralls, and were dressed to go. They found Greta waiting for them in the little lobby downstairs, and the three set off for the Gramercy Arms.

“How did your rehearsal go today, Greta?” Peggy asked.

“Fine,” Greta said, but her tone was a little doubtful.

“Is something wrong?” Amy asked.

“No. Not exactly, that is. The scenes we were working on are shaping up very well, but all of us are still a little worried about Paula. Not about her acting,” she added hurriedly. “We think she’s just wonderful. It’s ... well, it’s something else.”

“You’re not still worried about last week, are you?” Peggy asked. “I mean about that scene at Paolo’s? If you are, I’m sure that—”

“No, it’s not that,” Greta said. “We’re all convinced that whatever it was that caused that blowup, it won’t happen again. She’s not at all a temperamental person. No, we’re worried about her health. At least I am.”

“So am I,” Peggy confessed. “Amy and I were talking about it today. She looks so drawn and pale and ... tense. I’ve tried to speak to her about it, but she just refuses to admit that there’s anything wrong.”

“That’s the way she’s been with all of us,” Greta said. “She insists it’s just our imaginations, and that she never felt better. Or she says that it’s a case of character identification, and she’s beginning to look like the part she’s playing. But if that’s true, then she’s the best actress in the history of the theater.”

“Which she may well be,” Peggy said loyally. “But even if she is, I don’t think that’s the cause.”

“Since there doesn’t seem to be anything we can do about it,” Amy commented, “I think the best thing to do is to leave her alone and not bother her by asking about it. If she wants help, she knows we’re her friends.”

“I guess so,” Peggy agreed reluctantly. “Still, I’m worried.”

They continued home in a rather troubled silence.

Peggy’s planned attack on the bathtubs worked out just perfectly, and the two friends had plenty of time to prepare themselves for the evening’s date. The comforting dip in the hot tub and the change to their best party clothes (or, rather, Peggy’s best party clothes, since Amy elected to wear her print dress) served to change their mood as well. By the time that Randy and Mal rang at the door, Peggy and Amy were ready and waiting, in a cheerful mood of anticipation.

This was the first time that they had taken a real night off for over a month, and they were all looking forward to an enjoyable evening, free of the worries of the production. After a few minutes devoted to discussion, they decided to go for a drive into Westchester County for dinner and dancing in the country. All agreed that if they were trying to get their minds off the play, the best thing to do was to get out of the city, with its permanent air of show business.

It was a clear and starry night that had mixed in it the elements of two seasons—the end of winter and the first hint of spring. The stars were as hard and bright as in winter’s clear skies, but the air was almost soft, and the trees silhouetted against the pale sky, though still bare of leaves, were fuller in the bareness than they had been a week before; the buds on the branch tips were swollen, nearly ready to burst into little green flags.

Randy’s car, an old, but still elegant English convertible sedan, purred smoothly through the countryside. Peggy, settled comfortably in the deep leather seat, felt as if she were already a thousand miles away from New York, the theater, and her hard week’s work.

Randy drove with skill and confidence, and in far less time than they had thought possible, they were pulling into the driveway of a low stone restaurant with a slate-shingled roof, screened from the road by evergreens and shrubbery. The restaurant overhung a little lake in whose still surface its lights were reflected.

Inside, in a low room illuminated only by candles, a small orchestra was playing quiet dance music, and a few couples drifted about the floor. A courteous headwaiter, after checking their names on the list of reservations, led them to a small room containing only about a dozen tables. Their table was at the side of the room, by a picture window overlooking the lake, which could be seen, dark and bright, through the reflections of themselves and the swaying flames of the candles on their table.

“A thousand miles away,” Peggy was thinking. “No, a million miles!” as the conversation, as light and pleasant and unimportant as the music, went on. They were talking about the charming restaurant, the countryside, and the pleasures of getting out of the city.

“We’ll have to come here in summer,” Randy was saying. “They have little boats on the lake and you make them go with paddlewheels worked with a kind of hand crank. They have fringed canvas awnings on top, and cushioned seats to lean back in. The lake is bigger than it looks, and has lots of pretty coves and inlets, and even a landscaped island up at the far end. It’s a nice place to drift around.”

With a little twinge of feeling that she did not care to examine too closely, Peggy found herself wondering whom Randy had rowed around the lake, but she quickly put the thought out of her mind. She had no right to think about things like that, she told herself. Her relationship with Randy was ... well, it was what it was.

Peggy had no desire to be serious, except about the theater. And even the theater, she thought, should stay in the background tonight. She and the others had been living nothing but theater lately, and it was good for them to sit in this cozy, candlelit room and talk about things that didn’t matter; things like the coming of spring, rowing on the lake, or what to have for dinner.

But keeping actors from talking about the theater is as hopeless as trying to keep the tide from coming in. No matter what they start to talk about, it always ends up on stage. If the conversation is about books, somebody soon mentions a book that was made into a play, and they’re off again in stage talk. If the conversation is even about something as far removed from the theater as, say, sailboat racing, sooner or later somebody will be reminded of a sailor who wrote a play, or was an actor, and ... on stage.

Tonight was no exception, and by the time they were on their main course of rare, tender steaks with Idaho potatoes, buttered peas and green salad with Roquefort dressing, the talk had quite naturally drifted onto the inevitable subject.

“Are you satisfied with the way the play is developing, Mal?” Randy asked. “Does the cast live up to your hopes?”

“It’s going well,” Mal answered, with his usual English reserve. “My worries about making the development lopsided by working out one scene so thoroughly for the audition have proven to be groundless. If anything, I think it was a good experience for us all. We learned, under the most intense conditions, how to work together. We learned to respect each other, too, and that’s probably the most important thing that can happen to a company.”

“How about Paula?” Peggy asked.

“A wonderful actress,” Mal said with unusual enthusiasm. “I wonder where she learned it all. Even a natural talent like hers isn’t all natural, you know. Somewhere along the line, she had first-rate instruction.”

“She said something to me about coming from California and doing some little-theater things there,” Peggy said, “but she was rather vague about it, and I got the feeling that she wouldn’t welcome any questions.”

“She’s rather vague about everything,” Randy said, “except her acting ability. That’s as clear as can be.”

“I wonder where she played in California,” Mal said. “I have the feeling that I’ve seen her somewhere before, and I may have run across her when I was out in Hollywood. I know she looks familiar, at any rate.”

“She didn’t say,” Peggy replied. “All she told me was California, and I know it’s a big state. I suppose it might have been in the north, around San Francisco, but somehow I have the impression it was Los Angeles. Maybe that’s just because I only think of Los Angeles when I think of the acting business and California.”

“Why are you so anxious to know?” Amy asked Mal.

Taken aback a little, Mal hesitated before answering. “I’m not actually anxious to know about her,” he said at last. “For my purposes as a director I already know all I need to—that she’s a splendid actress. It’s just that such secretiveness as hers always inspires a little corresponding curiosity.”

“Well, frankly, I am curious,” Peggy said. “But I’m not as curious about her past as I am about her present. What worries me is her health. Haven’t you all noticed how pale she looks, and how thin and drawn she’s getting?”

“I have noticed her condition, of course,” Mal said with concern, “and I’ve asked her about it, as you have. She only says that I’m not to worry, and that she’ll be all right for the opening.”

“Well, I hope she knows what she’s doing,” Randy said. “I’d hate to have her get ill now, and have to start training a replacement. Besides, where would we get someone as good as....” He looked at Peggy and reddened.

“Oh, Randy,” she laughed, “you don’t have to be embarrassed about telling the truth. I know I’m not nearly as good as Paula, and you all know it, too. Though it’s very sweet of you to try to pretend that I am. But I didn’t walk away from the part just because I’m a nice girl and wanted to help Paula. I’m too much of an actress to be entirely unselfish when it comes to a good role! No, I just knew it was meant for her, and it was more than I could handle.”

Since, out of honesty, nobody wanted to contradict her, and out of embarrassment, nobody wanted to agree, an awkward little silence fell over the table. It lasted for only a moment, though, until Randy broke it by asking Peggy if she would like to dance. She nodded happily, relieved, and Mal and Amy followed them into the next room where the band was playing.

Randy was a wonderful dancer, having performed professionally as a song-and-dance man for some time, and Peggy felt that she herself never danced as well as when she was with him. Once again, the theater and its worries, Paula Andrews and her mysterious trouble, faded into the background as Peggy and Randy drifted slowly and easily about the polished floor.

Once again, the conversation turned light and pleasant and far removed from their everyday problems, and the candlelit restaurant seemed to Peggy to be a thousand miles removed from everything real.

But when it came time to leave, and when the car was once more purring along the road, the thousand-mile distance shrank to its true proportions of perhaps thirty-five miles. And every mile they drove brought them closer again to the busy, theatrical city, where even Randy’s good-night kiss at the doorstep could not remove from Peggy’s mind a sense of tension and trouble to come.

What the trouble might be, she could not say. What the tension’s cause was, she did not know. But surely at the center of it was the pale and sensitive face of Paula Andrews.

VIII Curtain Fall

“No, not that way, Greta,” Mal called from his seat in the orchestra. “Don’t sit down as if you knew the chair was there and as if you knew exactly what kind of a chair it was. I want you to give the impression of being unsure of yourself and your surroundings. Before you sit, look behind you quickly—maybe even touch the top of the chair—_then_ sit down.”

“But, Mal,” Greta said, coming to the apron of the stage to talk to him, “I’ve already used this chair earlier in the act, and I should be familiar with it by now. If I do it this way, isn’t it just going to look like an awkward piece of acting?”

“No,” Mal said. “When you used it before, it was when you were in a different personality mood, remember? This little difference will help to establish the change in your personality. It’s a small thing, and the audience may not even be aware of it consciously, but it’ll help to form the impression I want them to get. Try it, anyway, and I’ll see how it looks from out front.”

Greta agreed, and returned to the wings to pick up her entrance cue again. This time, when she entered, it was as if she had not been on stage before at all. She crossed unsurely to stage center to exchange a few lines with Alan Douglas and, when she was asked to sit down, turned a little, as Mal had told her, reached out a tentative hand to touch the back of the chair—but withdrew it before she touched it, and then swiftly sat down.

“Like that?” she asked Mal.

“Just like that,” he answered with satisfaction. “That chair bit is the give-away, and it’s perfect. I like your not quite touching it. Keep it in! Now let’s take it from there, Alan.”

Peggy waited in the wings for her own entrance cue. This time she was to come on aggressively, as the pampered ex-child movie star, to play against Greta’s shy confusion. In their previous exchange, Peggy had been quiet, well-mannered, even subservient in her character of plain-Jane secretary, for Greta had been acting the crisp, assured businesswoman.

Waiting, she watched with fascination how the play was taking shape. This evening was the first time they had been allowed to run through the entire play from beginning to end. The first time they had tried it, everyone could see how much work needed to be done, how shaky the whole structure was. But this time, the second of the evening, Mal had already done much to establish character and to direct movement on stage, and the production was gradually achieving a vitality of its own.

It was late, and everyone was tired, but they had all decided to finish their second run-through of the evening anyway, feeling that they would gain more from doing it all at once. At the rate they were going, it would be after one o’clock before they were through, and two o’clock before most of them were in their beds.

Peggy heard her cue lines coming up, and she got ready. At the right moment, she entered the stage with a kind of athletic bound, swinging an imaginary tennis racket. She tossed the “racket” (she would have one in the play) at the “couch” (a row of three chairs, at present) and perched on the edge of a table.

“My travel agent said that this place was different,” she said contemptuously, “and I guess it is, if different means dead.”

“Don’t take it quite so heavy, Peggy,” Mal called out. “You shouldn’t be so much disgusted with the place as you are, really, with yourself. You know that no matter how good it really might be, it wouldn’t suit you, because nothing ever does. Make the expression more regretful than contemptuous. And for the same reason, tone down your entrance a little.”

Peggy nodded to show her understanding, and went back to the wings again.

The scene, when played, would last only about five minutes, but Mal was hard to please and would let nothing pass. By the time it was over, the rehearsal of it had taken forty minutes and Peggy was glad to make her exit and sit down on a box near the switchboard where she could watch the next scene.

This one would go smoothly, she knew. It was the scene they had worked on for the audition at Sir Brian Alwyne’s, and although they had not worked out their stage movements as yet, the cast already had developed pace and rhythm.

Paula’s entrance, bewildered, awkward and eager to please, was perfect. She was as graceful and appealing as a doe. One by one, the other actors came on, each in turn trying to find some point of contact with her, each trying to please her. And as each failed, he went off, to return again in another mood or personality. The pace quickened. Paula’s confusion grew greater. The tension she projected was communicated to everyone present, those on stage and those in the wings or in the orchestra seats watching, as it would be to the audience. The second act was approaching its emotional crisis, uninterrupted by Mal, who sat as if entranced, on the edge of his seat.

Finally, at precisely the right moment, when it could go on not one moment more without shattering, the tension broke in a flood of emotion. Paula dropped to her knees in tears, then sank in a heap on the floor, sobbing. The scene was over. The actors turned expectantly to Mal, waiting for his comments, his praise.

But Paula did not rise, and she was not sobbing any longer.

Peggy realized in a flash that this was not like some of the previous rehearsals where Paula had been unable to stop the flood of stage tears that she had so skillfully built up to. This was different.

She rushed out on stage to where Paula lay huddled in a pool of light, and knelt by her side to shake her gently, but Paula did not move. Peggy turned her over and motioned the rest of the cast to move back. Paula lay pale and limp beneath the floodlights. She was breathing in quick uneven gasps.

“She’s fainted,” Peggy announced. “Somebody call a doctor!”

But Paula’s eyes flickered open, and she said in a weak voice, “No. Just take me home, please, Peggy. I’m ... I’m sorry. But I’ll be all right. I just want to go home now.” She closed her eyes again.

“What do you think?” Peggy asked Mal, who by this time had reached her side. “Shall I take her home, or call a doctor?”

“I think you can get her home before we could persuade a doctor to come down to this half-deserted neighborhood,” Mal said. “Why don’t you take her home and make her comfortable? We’ll get a cab, and I’ll go with you to carry her in case she faints again. Meanwhile, Randy can call a doctor and have him go directly to Paula’s apartment.”

“No,” Paula protested, “I don’t need a doctor. I’ll be all right once I’m home. There’s nothing really wrong with....” She tried to sit up, and with the effort fainted once more.

“Come on,” Mal said. “Get your coat, Peggy. Alan! Will you go out after a cab, please? Randy, call the doctor right away! Everybody else, go on home. Rehearsals are over for tonight. See you all tomorrow, same time.”

This time Paula did not come out of her faint until they were nearly at her house. She made no attempt to talk, or even to protest when Mal carried her from the taxi. When they had her upstairs, lying on the daybed, Mal turned to leave.

“I don’t think I’d better stay,” he said, “but the doctor ought to be here any minute. You’ll stay with her, won’t you, Peggy, until you find out from him what’s wrong?”

“Of course,” Peggy said. “And if it’s not too late, I’ll call you when I leave. Otherwise, I’ll let you know in the morning. Good night, Mal, and thanks for your help.”

“Yes, thank you, Mal,” Paula said weakly, with a small smile. Then, once again, she closed her eyes.

It had not taken the doctor long to diagnose Paula’s condition. Peggy had gone out to fill the prescription, and was now busy preparing it. It was some chicken soup, toast and tea, to be followed in the morning with a light breakfast, then a good, hearty lunch.

“I can’t understand why you didn’t tell me about it,” Peggy said. “You know I would have loaned you some money. It’s just ridiculous for anyone to go hungry when she has friends! You can’t imagine how shocked I was when the doctor said that you were suffering from malnutrition, and that you didn’t seem to have eaten anything for at least two days! Maybe I’ve led too sheltered a life, but I never even _heard_ of anyone starving—not in this country, anyway.”

“It can happen anywhere, I guess,” Paula said, with a sad smile.

“But why?” Peggy cried. “Why didn’t you let me help you?”

“I would have, Peggy, if it had been just a sudden thing, but it wasn’t. It was a continuing thing. I guess if I had had enough to eat during the last month, I wouldn’t have keeled over from going for two days without anything. I’ve been living on canned beans and bread and other cheap food for over a month now, and to ask for help would have meant asking for regular help—every week. And I didn’t want to take advantage of anyone that way.”

“But, Paula, that’s so silly!” Peggy protested. “How long did you think you would be able to go on without proper food?”

“I was just trying to hold out until tomorrow, when my pay check comes in from Randy and Mal. Then I could have had something to eat.”

“Do you mean to say,” Peggy asked in astonishment, “that you’ve been trying to live on just the rehearsal salary? Why, that’s hardly enough to pay the rent in a place like this, much less to eat!”

“I know,” Paula said. “I’ve been finding that out. But we go into full pay for rehearsal next week, and I thought I could hold out until then. I guess I was wrong, wasn’t I?”

“But what about your job at the department store?” Peggy asked.

“Oh. I—I lied about that, Peggy. I was laid off right after the Christmas season, and I haven’t been working since then. I had some money put aside, but it was almost gone when I got the part in the play. Then I thought I could live on the rehearsal money until we went into full pay. By the time I found I couldn’t, I was too weak to take a full-time job.”

“But you could have moved to some less expensive place, couldn’t you?” Peggy asked. “This little apartment must cost a lot of money.”

“It does,” Paula admitted, “but I like it here, and I didn’t want to give it up. I thought that I could manage. I’m sorry now. I’ve caused everybody so much trouble.”

“That’s the least of our worries,” Peggy said, filling up Paula’s bowl with a second helping of chicken soup. “The question now is how you’re going to get along for the next week until the full pay comes in. And also how you’re going to live here, even on that.”

“Oh, I’ll get by, Peggy. I know I will. Besides, I have such faith in the play. I know it will be a hit, and if it is, our salaries will go up above the minimum. Randy told me how much I could expect to earn as the lead, if we have a success, and it’s plenty for me to live on.”

“But until then,” Peggy said, “you’re going to need more cash. Isn’t there somebody you can go to for help? How about your family?”

“Oh, no!” Paula said. “My family ... I haven’t any family. I mean, I’m an orphan. My parents are dead, and I haven’t anyone else. I’ve been supporting myself for a long time, and I’m used to it.”

“Well, then,” Peggy said firmly, “I’m going to have to be your family, and you’ll have to accept help from me. I would say that you’ll need about fifty dollars a week to add to what you earn—at least until we get to be a hit, if we do. And since you haven’t anybody else, you’ll have to let me get it for you.”

“Oh, no, I can’t let you do that, Peggy!” Paula protested. “I know that you haven’t got that kind of money, and besides, I ... I don’t want any help. I can take care of myself. I want to take care of myself!”

Peggy sat down on the edge of the bed and took Paula’s hand. “I can understand the way you feel,” she said, “but that’s a foolish kind of pride. Everybody wants to think they’re taking care of themselves, but really nobody does. Before your parents died, they took care of you. They fed you and clothed you and taught you to walk and talk. If somebody hadn’t taken care of you then, you wouldn’t have lived to want to take care of yourself. As we grow up, we take care of ourselves more and more, but we’re never completely on our own. Everybody needs someone else. That’s what friends are for. And you’ve got to let me be your friend.”

Paula’s eyes filled with tears. “I suppose you’re right, Peggy. It is just foolish pride, and you’re so good to talk to me this way and to want to help me. But ... what I said before. I know you can’t afford it!”

“Of course I can’t,” Peggy said. “But I’ve got friends—and many of them are your friends, too, and I intend to ask them. I’m going to talk to all the members of the cast who have jobs, and to the girls who live at the Gramercy Arms, and we’ll get up a group to help you out. That way it won’t cost anyone more than three or four dollars a week, which we won’t miss too much.”

“Oh, Peggy, that’s so good of you,” Paula said, “but I feel so ashamed to take your money!”

“Think how ashamed we’d feel,” Peggy said, “if we weren’t able to help you. And besides, we’re not doing it just for you. We’re doing it for the play. We need you in the play. There’s nobody else who can do the Alison part the way you can ... and even if there were, it would be too late now for a cast substitution. No, it’s your part, and it’s our play, and we have to keep you in good condition to do it. It’s a difficult enough role to play even if you’re well-fed, and I just don’t believe you can do it if you’re half-starved. Now I don’t want to hear another word about it except ‘yes.’”

Paula’s smile was stronger now, between spoonfuls of soup. She looked up, her eyes still wet, and softly said, “Yes. Thanks.”

“Good. That’s settled,” Peggy said. “Now, would you like some tea and toast? The doctor said not to give you more than this to eat tonight, no matter how hungry you said you felt. No. No butter. He said dry toast, but I suppose you can dunk it in the tea, if you like.”

While Paula was eating the last scrap of tea and toast, and protesting that she felt a good deal more like eating a steak, Peggy got some pajamas for her from a bureau drawer, and a robe and some slippers from the closet. Then, since Paula was still weak, she helped her change into them, made up the daybed, and tucked her in bed.

“You look a lot better now,” Peggy said. “The best thing for you to do is get a good night’s sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning. You’ll find eggs and butter and coffee and orange juice in the kitchen, so you can make breakfast for yourself, but after eating, go back to bed and rest. That’s doctor’s orders. I’ll come up here at noontime, and we can go out for a good lunch together.”

Cutting Paula’s thanks short with a wave of her hand, Peggy said a quick good night and left. It was past her bedtime, too.

IX One for the Money....

In the comfortable, well-furnished living room of the Gramercy Arms, Peggy prepared to call a meeting to order.

May Berriman, the retired actress who owned the house, sat regally in a high-backed, thronelike chair. Her hands were busy with a tiny silver bobbin and a tatting needle, making delicate lace; but they seemed to be working with an intelligence of their own while their owner, not even looking at them, was busily observing the faces of “her girls.”

Irene Marshall, the house beauty, was gracefully curled up on the couch in the sort of decorative pose hardly ever seen outside the pages of the more expensive fashion magazines. At the other end of the couch, her knees drawn up and her feet tucked under her, sat Gaby (Gabrielle Odette Francine Du-Champs Goulet), looking about her expectantly, her head cocked to one side like a toy French poodle’s.

Maggie Delahanty, the dancer, sat cross-legged on the floor like a Hindu, her back straight and her hands loosely folded, a magazine open on her knees. She could sit for hours like this in apparent perfect comfort, in a position the other girls found almost impossible to get into at all.

In more conventional positions, seated on chairs, were Greta, Amy, and Peggy.

“I guess everybody’s here now,” Peggy said, “so I might as well tell you why I asked you all to meet in here. I need your help, but I didn’t want to explain it several times, because it’s rather a complicated story.”

As briefly as she could, Peggy told them about Paula, as Paula had told her. Then she recounted the events of the night before, ending with the doctor’s visit.

“When he told me that she had fainted from hunger,” Peggy concluded, “I was so shocked I didn’t know what to say. I’m still not sure I understand how it came to happen, but I am sure of one thing. Paula needs help, and I told her that I would see to it that she gets it.”

“She needs some common sense even more than she needs help,” Maggie said tartly. “Unfortunately, I don’t think we have any of that to spare. Why did she let this go on so long without doing something about it?”

“Yes, why?” Irene asked. “I know a lot of people who are out of work, but they don’t let themselves starve. I’ve been out of work myself plenty of times, the way every beginner in show business is, and I’ve always gone straight to the unemployment people. The government check hasn’t been much, but it’s been enough to eat on.”

“I asked her that,” Peggy said, “and she told me that she didn’t qualify for unemployment insurance. Apparently you have to have worked for a certain length of time before you can collect any insurance, and she hadn’t worked that long when the department store laid her off after the Christmas rush.”

“That’s true,” Greta said. “I was in a fix like that myself once, and I had to ask my parents for help until I could get a job. Luckily, I have parents and they have enough to be able to spare some for me.”

“Most of us have someone to turn to,” Peggy said, “but Paula’s an orphan, and hasn’t even got any aunts or uncles or cousins. But she does have friends, and that’s what I want to talk to you about.”

“Oh, we all of us ’ave understand that alreadee,” Gaby said with a toss of her head. “That part of the problem is no more worree. I give a few dollar each week—we all give a few dollar—nobodee give enough for to miss it, an’ presto! Mademoiselle Paula ’as plentee to live on. No?”

“That’s just what I had in mind,” Peggy said, relieved not to have had to actually ask for the money. She had been hoping her friends would offer it as their own idea. “How do the rest of you feel about it?”

Everybody nodded agreement and murmured assurance that they would do as much as they could to help. “How much does she need?” asked Maggie, practical as always.

“I think about fifty dollars a week would do it,” Peggy answered, “but it doesn’t all have to come from us. There are several members of the cast who are working at other jobs and who would be glad to contribute. In fact, I think they’d be insulted if they weren’t approached about it.”

“Won’t Paula object to their knowing all about her troubles?” Amy asked.

“I don’t think so,” Peggy said. “Besides, they all saw her faint last night, and some explanation will have to be given. Not only that, but I don’t think we should try to hide it as if it were some disgraceful thing not to have enough money for food. Paula has been hiding her troubles too long, and she’s going to have to accept the fact that you can’t hide trouble and fight it at the same time.”

“Very wise, Peggy,” May Berriman approved. “I agree, just as I agree with Maggie that your friend needs some common sense more than she needs help. It’s possible that by helping her in this open way, you may also provide her with a little common sense!”

“Speaking of common sense,” Greta put in, “I think it’s about time we got down to dollars and cents in this discussion, instead of just going on vaguely about wanting to help. Does anyone have a suggestion about how much we should all contribute to the Paula Fund?”

After mentioning several figures, and after some discussion about how much should come from the Gramercy Arms and how much from the cast, an agreement was reached.

“So it’s settled,” Peggy said. “Gramercy Arms will give twenty-five dollars a week, and the cast will give the rest. Now, twenty-five dollars divided among the six of us girls....”

“Seven,” May Berriman interrupted. “I may not be a girl any longer, but you’ll grant I am a part of Gramercy Arms.”

“Thanks, May,” Peggy said gratefully. “Well, seven then. That comes to ... let’s see. Three-fifty each a week would add up to twenty-four dollars and fifty cents. That’s close enough, I guess, and we can all surely spare that. It’s only fifty cents a day.”

“I have another suggestion, Peggy,” May Berriman said. “As you all know, Dot is on tour and isn’t due to return for another three months. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if Paula were to use her room. Why don’t you ask her to come in here with us and give up that expensive apartment?”

Peggy reflected for a minute. “No, I don’t think so,” she said at length. “If she had been willing to move out of that apartment, she would have done it before this. I don’t think she’d be at all happy here. She’s so—well, so secretive, and I think that all she wants is to be left alone. I suppose that sounds pretty strange, and pretty self-indulgent, too, but as I told you, I think she’s having some kind of trouble that we don’t even know about, and she obviously doesn’t want us to know. I don’t think it would be helping at all if we tried to get her to come to live with us.”

“Maybe you’re right,” May Berriman said. “One sure way to be of no help at all is to try to change a person’s way of living. At any rate, you can tell her that the room is here for her to use in case she wants to.”

“I will,” Peggy said. “And I’d like nothing better than to have her say yes, but I just know she won’t.”

Maggie stood up, uncoiling from her cross-legged position in a single, fluid movement. “I guess it’s all settled, then,” she said. “The only thing for us to do now is to get up the money.” Digging into the pocket of her blue jeans, she produced a small wallet from which she extracted three crumpled dollar bills and two quarters. “Here’s my first week’s dues in the Help Paula Club,” she said.

The rest of the girls hurried up to their rooms to find money and, five minutes later, after a confused session of change-making, Peggy had twenty-five dollars (May Berriman had insisted on giving an extra fifty cents to make the sum come out even) carefully sealed in an envelope.

Thanking their housemates, Peggy, Amy, and Greta excused themselves. They had barely enough time for a quick dinner before reporting to rehearsal.

“We’ve got good friends,” Peggy said as they seated themselves in a booth in a nearby restaurant where they often went. “It certainly was generous of them to contribute to a girl they don’t even know.”

“That’s one of the nicest things about show business,” Greta said. “I guess it’s because everyone in the business has been out of work and in hard circumstances at one time or another. They’re always willing to help another actor who’s having a hard time. Maybe it’s a kind of insurance policy against the next time they’re in trouble themselves.”

“It ought to be even easier to collect the other half of the money from the cast,” Amy commented. “And once we have that, Paula will be all right.”

“In a sense, she will be,” Peggy said with a worried expression. “At least she’ll be all right financially. But I don’t think we’ve begun to settle her problems, and I don’t know if we should even try.”

“What do you mean?” Amy asked. “What other problems does she have, and why shouldn’t we try to solve them?”

“I don’t know,” Peggy said uneasily.

“What makes you think something else is wrong?” Greta asked.

“I know something else is wrong,” Peggy said firmly. “It’s not just guesswork. The question is whether or not we have a right to poke our noses into Paula’s business.”

“Stop hinting, Peggy,” Amy said with unaccustomed sharpness. “Why don’t you just tell us what your suspicions are, and we can all contribute our thinking.”

“I suppose that’s best,” Peggy said sadly. “I just hate to tell you that I think Paula still hasn’t told us the truth about herself and the reason she had to go hungry. I saw things when I was at her apartment that convinced me of that. But I don’t know why.”

“You think she’s lying?” Greta asked. “Why?”

“To begin with,” Peggy said, determined to have the whole thing out in the open, “she’s lying about ever having worked in a department store, and about being a poor orphan. I know because of the clothes I saw in her closet and her bureau when I was getting her pajamas and robe for her.”

“How can clothes tell you she never worked in a department store?” Amy asked, puzzled.

“Shoes,” Peggy said. “Didn’t you ever notice salesgirls’ shoes? Standing behind a counter all day long is pretty hard on the feet, and your shoes have to be practical and comfortable. Paula had a large collection of shoes in that closet—all of them very smart and fashionable and expensive—but not one pair that a girl could stand in all day long, except for the sport shoes that a department store wouldn’t allow its clerks to wear. You know, moccasins and things like that.”

“It makes sense,” Greta said grudgingly, “in a way. But maybe she had work shoes and they wore out and she threw them away.”

“Maybe,” Peggy said, “but that doesn’t account for the kind of shoes she did have. For instance, there were high riding boots and low jodhpur boots in that closet. Now, I have a horse at home in Wisconsin, and I know something about riding equipment, and those boots were handmade and must have cost a fortune. Where would an orphan salesgirl get boots like that? And why would she want them in the city? Not only that, but there were ski boots and golf shoes, too, and I have the same questions about those. I suppose it all sounds very nosy and suspicious of me, but I couldn’t help thinking about it and what it means.”

“What it means,” Greta said, “is that you’re probably right. From what you say, I’m sure that Paula wasn’t telling the truth about herself. But what can we do about it, and why should we try to do anything? It’s really none of our business, is it?”

“That’s just the problem that’s been worrying me,” Peggy confessed. “I keep asking myself whether it’s any of our business who Paula is and what she’s hiding. I think I’ve finally decided that it is.”

“In what way?” Amy asked. “Just because we’ve agreed to help her with a little money doesn’t mean we own any part of her, does it? I think we ought to leave her alone!”

“Oh, Amy, you can’t think I meant it like that!” Peggy said. “Of course the loan doesn’t give us any right to go poking into her affairs! But the fact that we’re her friends does give us a right. We didn’t get curious about her health, for fear of offending her, and as a result she collapsed from hunger. Now if she’s in some other kind of trouble, and we don’t do something to help, we may regret that just as much.”

“That does make sense,” Amy admitted. “It’s just that I hate to go behind her back....”

“Why go behind her back?” Greta asked. “Why not just come right out and ask her what’s wrong? Even mention the shoes and boots and things, so that she’ll know why we’re suspicious of what she told you.”

“She won’t admit anything’s wrong,” Peggy said. “I tried to ask her at lunch when I went out with her today, but she wouldn’t even talk to me about it. Every time I seemed to be coming close to whatever’s bothering her, she just changed the subject.”

“Well, then, what do you think we-all can do about it?” Amy asked. “If she doesn’t want to tell us her troubles, there’s no way that we can force her to do it. I still think we ought to leave her alone.”

Peggy shook her head in vigorous disagreement. “That’s just what we shouldn’t do,” she said. “It seems to me she’s been left alone too much, and hasn’t been able to do a good job of taking care of herself.”

“But you said that she doesn’t respond to pushing—or direct questions,” Greta commented.

“And we certainly don’t want to—to snoop!” Amy put in.

“I know,” Peggy agreed. “But there is one thing we can do. We can make every effort to show her that we’re her friends, and to show her that she can trust us. If we do it sincerely, without pushing or snooping, I’m sure she’ll confide in us when she wants to.”

“It seems to me that we’ve all made a pretty big effort already,” Greta said tartly. “What more can we do?”

“Well,” Peggy said thoughtfully, “if I were Paula, I might be inclined to think that the effort made so far was more charitable than friendly, if the difference is clear. I mean, we’ve helped her with money and all that ... but that’s not exactly what I mean. I think we ought to do something to show her that we’re glad to know her, and glad that she’s in the show, and ... I don’t know. It’s just that I feel that money alone doesn’t say what needs saying to a girl like Paula. She’s a sensitive person, after all, and she might even resent the financial help, in some subtle way.”

“You may be right, at that,” Amy said softly. “I know that if I were ever in her position ... having to take money from people ... I’d feel pretty uncomfortable about it. Especially if the people were just—well—just casual acquaintances. And after all, that’s what we are to her.”

“That’s just the point,” Peggy said eagerly. “You’ve put it perfectly! We _are_ just casual acquaintances—not close friends. It’s no wonder that she keeps a kind of wall between her and us, even though we are helping her.”

“Rather _because_ we’re helping her,” Greta amended. “Everybody knows it’s a lot harder to take help than to give it.”

“But what can we do to show her that she’s not just a—a charity case to us?” Amy asked.

“That’s what I’ve been asking myself,” Peggy said, “and I think I’ve got one good idea anyhow. It’s not much, but it’s a beginning. Why don’t we give her a little surprise party tonight after rehearsal, to celebrate her coming back to the show and being all right again?”

“I think she’d like that!” Amy exclaimed. “What do you think, Greta?”

“I think it’s fine,” Greta agreed. “Tonight’s rehearsal is bound to be a strain for her anyhow, and it would be nice to give her a chance to relax and cheer up afterward. How do you want to work it, Peggy?”

Peggy thought for a moment before answering. “We might ask her up to the Gramercy Arms after rehearsal,” she suggested. “I’m sure that Gaby and Irene and Maggie would be glad to set up a party for us while we’re gone, and everything could be ready by the time we got back....”

“No,” Amy interrupted. “That won’t do. The minute we invited her up to the Gramercy Arms, she’d know there was something special up, and the surprise would be lost. Besides, she’d have to meet the other girls, and there would be the usual strain of new people....”

“Not only that,” Greta added, “but there’s no guarantee that she would come back with us after rehearsal. She might be too tired and want to go straight home. And she’s shy about new places and people, anyway.”

“How about at the theater?” Amy suggested.

But Peggy and Greta vetoed that suggestion on the ground that it would have to include the whole cast, and that would make too large a party to enable them to accomplish their primary purpose, which was to develop a more intimate relationship with Paula.

“I know!” Peggy exclaimed. “Why don’t we have the party right in her own apartment? That way, we’ll be sure that she’ll be there, and we can control the number of people! In fact, I think we ought to keep it to just the three of us and Paula! Amy and I can miss rehearsal tonight—you can tell her some thing at the Academy kept us late, and you can come home from rehearsal with Paula. While you and Paula are at the theater, Amy and I can shop and set up a real surprise party!”

“Fine!” Greta agreed. “But how are you going to get into Paula’s apartment without a key?”

“The superintendent will let us in, I’m sure,” Peggy replied. “He saw us when Mal and I brought Paula home last night, and he saw me again when I was there to pick her up for lunch this afternoon, so he knows that I’m a friend of hers. If we explain about the surprise party, I know he’ll let us in, and not mention it if he sees you and Paula coming home. He seemed like a very nice man, and he was genuinely concerned about Paula. I know he’ll approve of the idea of a party.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” Greta agreed. “While you’re setting up the party, and while Paula’s busy rehearsing, I’m sure that I can manage to raise the money from the cast. I’ll bring it with me, and we can give it to her along with the Gramercy Arms money at the same time.”

“We can buy a cake and birthday candles too,” Amy suggested, “and as soon as you come, you can tell me how many of the cast members chipped in, and we can put a candle on the cake for every friend Paula has. It will really be something to celebrate!”

“Good,” Greta said, nodding her agreement. “Well, we’d better get going now. We’re on a tight time schedule. I have to report at the theater for rehearsal in fifteen minutes, and you have to start your shopping for the party. Mal will probably take it easy on Paula after last night, so you had better be prepared to have us come in on you early. Be sure that you have all the party things set up by ten o’clock.”

Picking up their check, the three girls rose to go, looking forward with high spirits to the challenge of breaking down Paula’s wall of reserve and of showing her that there is such a thing as real friendship in what must have appeared to her to be a hard, cold world.

X Two for the Show....

“If they expect to be at Paula’s by ten,” Peggy said as she and Amy left the restaurant, “we’d better hurry. We have a lot of shopping to do, and food to prepare. And I’d like to decorate Paula’s apartment in some way, too. It’s a nice enough place, but I couldn’t help noticing how cold and unlived-in it looks. Maybe we can find some way to make it cheerful, even if it’s just for an evening.”

“If we hurry, we can do that part of the shopping before the stores on Twenty-third Street close,” Amy said. “I remember seeing a sort of party shop there that sells things like crepe paper and candles and silly decorations and things. I think they’re open till seven or seven-thirty.”

“I remember the place,” Peggy said. “If we go there first, we can put off the food shopping until later. The bakeries and the delicatessens always stay open till late.”

The girls hurried uptown the few blocks to Twenty-third Street, where they found the proprietor of the little party shop getting ready to close for the night. With a resigned sigh, he agreed to stay open a few minutes more in order to let the two friends buy the few things they needed for their surprise party. Trying to make their decisions in a hurry, so as not to further exasperate the shopkeeper, they quickly settled on some paper napkins with a festive rosebud design, and some sugar rosebud-shaped candle-holders for the cake. Peggy also bought some pink crepe-paper sheets and strips.

“I think I can make these into some nice paper roses—if I remember how they taught us to do it in kindergarten,” she said. “That ought to brighten the place up!”

Amy found some white paper plates with rosebuds to match the napkins, but as the girls started to search for more things to make the party, the owner of the shop began to turn off the lights, throw dust-covers over fixtures, and generally make it clear that his patience was at an end.

“I guess that’s really all we’ll need, Amy,” Peggy said nervously. “I think that we’d better get going.”

Thanking the shopkeeper for staying open for them, they paid for their purchases and left. The owner left with them, turned the lock in the door, and with a curt nod briskly strode down the street.

“Gee, we just made it,” Peggy said with a grin. “If we had taken ten seconds more, I think he would have locked us in the store for the night!”

Farther down the street, a delicatessen store shed a bright glow on the nearly deserted sidewalk. Peggy and Amy made their way to it as if it were a beacon marking the way to a friendly port.

Nothing in the world is more delightfully confusing than an old-fashioned delicatessen in New York. There is a special quality to the very smell of the place; it is a compound of every good thing to eat, and so complex a perfume that it is almost impossible to isolate the elements that make it up. One _can_ detect clearly the briny smell of pickles, and on second sniff, the rich harmonies of imported cheeses, but beyond that, it would take the most sensitive nose in the world to analyze the atmosphere. And as you walk through the store from front to back, the odor changes, becomes alternately richer, lighter, sharper, sweeter, spicier or more pungent.

The store was so narrow, and the man behind the counter so wide, that Peggy had to suppress a little giggle, wondering how on earth he managed to squeeze himself in. With a broad grin and a welcoming gesture that threatened to sweep the counter clean of its load of little jars, boxes, and tins, he said, “Good evening, ladies! What can I do for you?”

“I don’t know.” Peggy smiled. “You’ve got so much here that I scarcely know where to begin.”

“Tell me your problem,” the man said in a confidential, professional manner. “We specialize in catering for all kinds of events. Just tell me what you have in mind, and let me do the selecting.”

“It’s not really an event,” Amy began. “We’re just planning a little surprise party for a friend, and there are only going to be four of us....”

“And you say it’s not an event!” the delicatessen owner said reproachfully. “When you buy here, every meal is an event! Just tell me how much you want to spend, and I’ll make you a menu for a party you’ll never forget!”

His enthusiasm flagged a little when Peggy hesitantly told him that they hadn’t figured on spending more than five dollars, but he made a fast recovery.

“Even for _four_ dollars,” he said, “I could make you a party for the gods!”

Seemingly from nowhere, he produced a beautifully roasted turkey with a few slices already removed. Skillfully, he cut several long, thin slices of white meat. Swiss cheese followed, and after that, moist, lean slices of pink ham. Moving deftly and surely from counter to bin to shelf to refrigerator to cabinet, the owner piled up containers of potato salad, cole slaw, bottles of soft drinks, a sliced loaf of rye bread with caraway seeds and a small jar of mustard.

“There!” he said. “That’s an event!”

“How much is it?” Peggy asked, looking fearfully at what seemed to her to be a mountain of food.

“I was aiming for five dollars,” the owner said, “as specified. However, let me do the addition and see....” He rapidly penciled figures on a brown paper bag and added them in a flash. When he looked up, it was with a crestfallen expression.

“The first time in years I went over the budget,” he said mournfully. “Usually I can pick things out right to the penny. Ah, well....” He sighed. “To err is human. Even for a delicatessen owner.”

“How much is it?” Peggy asked again.

“Five dollars and thirteen cents,” came the sorrowful answer. “But for you, and because we had a bargain, four dollars and ninety-nine cents!”

“Oh, no!” Peggy said. “We’ll be glad to pay it all! It’s such a little——”

“Not in my delicatessen!” the owner said, drawing himself up proudly. “To Schwartz, a contract is a contract! Four ninety-nine, and not a penny more!”

Not knowing if Mr. Schwartz was serious or joking, Peggy decided not to take the chance of hurting his feelings. She gave him a five-dollar bill, and dutifully accepted the penny change.

By the time the girls had picked up their packages, Mr. Schwartz had recovered his normal high spirits. He hastened to the door to open it for them, gave them the full benefit of his smile and said, “Remember—make every meal an event! That’s philosophy! Good night and come again!”

The next stop, a small Viennese bakery a few doors west, proved uneventful except for finding the perfect cake for the occasion. It was a small layer cake covered with snowy white icing and a decorative trim of pink sugar rosebuds around the edge. It made the ideal match for the napkins and the crepe paper they had bought.

Loaded down with their purchases, they took a bus uptown to Paula’s street, and by eight o’clock they found themselves standing before the green lacquered street door of her apartment house.

“I certainly hope that the superintendent’s in tonight,” Peggy said as she pushed the buzzer. “It would be awful to have bought all this good food, and then have him be out!”

“We could always camp here on the doorstep and wait for Paula and Greta to come home,” Amy said. “But, frankly, the idea of a two-hour wait in the night air isn’t exactly guaranteed to put me in a party mood!”

Their fears were groundless, however. The superintendent, a polite old man, answered the door after only a few minutes’ delay. He greeted Peggy with a smile of recognition and apologized for keeping them waiting.

Peggy explained the purpose of their visit, and the old man’s eyes lighted up with pleasure when he heard of the surprise party. “I sure am glad to see Miss Andrews making some friends,” he said. “She’s such a nice young lady, and my wife and I often worry about her, sitting up there all day alone. It doesn’t seem natural for such a fine girl to have to be by herself so much. I think a thing like this’ll do her a world of good!”

Upstairs, the superintendent let them into Paula’s apartment with his master passkey. “If I see them coming in,” he said with a conspiratorial smile, “I won’t let on a thing. I don’t know of anything worse than a surprise party where there’s no surprise to it!”

The girls thanked him, and a moment later found themselves alone in Paula’s little apartment.

It had been straightened up since Peggy’s last visit at lunchtime, and the few clothes and other objects that had been visible had all been put neatly out of sight. This made the room look even more barren and impersonal than Peggy had remembered it—as polite and impersonal as Paula’s manner whenever Peggy had tried to break the wall of mystery that surrounded her new friend.

Amy looked around her with a sigh. “It’s about as homey as a hotel room, isn’t it?” she said. “I hope that we brought enough crepe paper to brighten it up a little!”

“It’s going to take more than crepe paper,” Peggy said sadly. “It’s going to take some real show of friendship. She must be a really lonely girl for even the superintendent and his wife to have noticed it and to be concerned about it. I hope that this little party of ours is some help.”

“It’s bound to be,” Amy said. “It will certainly take the curse off the business of just handing her money. That could be downright awkward, you know, even though she has agreed to accept it.”

“I hope you’re right,” Peggy said. “I’m sure that if there ever was a girl who needed friends to tell things to—and who had things to tell them—it’s Paula Andrews!”

They unloaded their purchases in the little kitchenette, and while Amy was unwrapping the sliced meat and cheese, Peggy busied herself with setting up the gate-leg table that stood folded against the wall. Going back to the kitchenette, she rummaged about in the bag that held the napkins, candles, and crepe paper.

“Oh dear!” she exclaimed. “I knew we forgot something! We didn’t buy a paper tablecloth!”

“Oh, Paula must have a plain white tablecloth here that we can use,” Amy said.

“I’ll take a look,” Peggy said. “I hate to see a bare table, unless there are place mats, and we don’t even have enough napkins to use as mats. Where do you suppose she’d keep her tablecloths?”

Looking around the room, Amy pointed to a low chest with three shallow drawers that stood near the kitchenette door. “If I had any cloths I’d keep them in there,” she said.

Peggy opened the top drawer. “No tablecloths,” she said, “but we’re on the right track. There are bed linens and some towels in here.” She went to the second drawer. There were no linens here, but simply a large, flat, leather box of highly polished calfskin. It took up most of the drawer. Peggy was about to shut the drawer when something caught her attention. She gave a low whistle.

“Amy, come here,” she said.

“Tablecloths?” Amy said.

“Look.” Peggy pointed to a small silver plate fixed to the lower right-hand corner of the leather box. It was engraved: “_For Paula’s first part—and her future career. With love from Mother and Dad._”

“I guess you were right, Peggy,” Amy said. “About the shoes, and Paula not being a salesgirl, and not being poor....”

“And not being an orphan, either,” Peggy added.

“Well ... this certainly shows that she wasn’t raised as an orphan,” Amy said, “but this could have been given to her before—before she became an orphan, couldn’t it?”

“No,” Peggy said flatly. “For one thing, this is pretty new. And, besides, even if Paula’s parents did ... die ... after giving her this, the rest of her story couldn’t possibly be true. People who can give gifts like this don’t leave a daughter penniless.”

“I suppose not,” Amy admitted. “But, in that case, what do you think the real story is?”

“It seems pretty clear that Paula has run away from home for some reason of her own,” Peggy answered. “Her parents certainly don’t know where she is, or what kind of circumstances she’s in, or they surely would have done something to help her. They’re obviously not the sort of people to hold back on giving things to their daughter. And this inscription tells us that they didn’t try to keep her from pursuing a career as an actress. In fact, unless I miss my guess, this is a professional make-up kit.”

A quick glance inside confirmed Peggy’s guess. It was a theatrical make-up box, beautifully fitted with tiny jars of creams and colors, each with a silver lid engraved with Paula’s initials. There were special compartments for brushes, pencils, and cotton pads.

“Well, you certainly seem to be right,” Amy admitted, “but now that we know about it, what do you think we should do? Should we do anything? Isn’t it Paula’s business if she chooses to leave home?”

“It’s certainly her business if she chooses to _live_ away from home,” Peggy said firmly, “but running away and hiding is something else again. Her parents are probably worried sick about her! I don’t think we can afford to wait for Paula to warm up to us on the chance that she’ll tell us about it. I think she’s acting thoughtlessly and unreasonably, and much as I like her, that doesn’t change my opinion of what she’s doing. We have to stop it, or at least look into it to find out who Paula’s parents are and why she left home. Unless she has a darn good reason for not letting them know where she is, we’ll have to tell them. It’s the only decent thing to do!”

“If we do,” Amy said, “they might take her out of the play.”

“They might,” Peggy agreed, “but people are more important than plays. And anyway, I don’t think they would. They’re obviously people who are in sympathy with Paula’s wanting to be an actress.”

“That seems like a good guess,” Amy said with a smile, glancing at the extravagant make-up kit. “But how do we find out who they are? And once we find out, do we just call them? Shouldn’t we give Paula a chance first?”

“We certainly should,” Peggy said. “All I want to do is find out who her parents are, and tell her we know. Then we’ll give her the choice of calling them, or having us do it. This is not just a question of sticking my nose into someone else’s business; it’s a question of doing what’s right.”

“You still haven’t told me how you expect to find out who her parents are,” Amy said.

“Maybe if I look around, I’ll find something with an address on it. Maybe a letter or something—”

“But—” Amy objected.

“I know,” Peggy interrupted, “but it has to be done. Why don’t you get the table set up as best you can, and I’ll look around a little.” She glanced at her watch. “We haven’t too much time, you know. They ought to be here in about an hour.”

“What about the crepe-paper roses?” Amy asked. “I don’t know how to make them!”

“I’m in no mood to make roses,” Peggy answered sadly and a little grimly. “Use the crepe paper for a tablecloth. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

As she started looking through Paula’s bureau, Peggy reflected that it was strange how a person could do something completely against her nature and as unpleasant as searching a friend’s room, when a matter of conscience and principle was involved. It was not always easy to do the right thing.

Conquering her qualms with the assurance that she was acting in the best interests of both Paula and her parents, Peggy went carefully about her search.

It took her nearly twenty minutes to go through the bureau and closet in a thorough manner. She carefully took down each dress and coat, looked at the labels and went through the pockets. She examined the many shoes and boots, as well as the sports equipment neatly stored on the shelves and the luggage on the floor in back. She put each thing back exactly as she had found it. When she closed the door behind her, she knew that she had found something, but not as yet what she had been looking for.

“What did you learn?” asked Amy, who was putting the finishing touches on the table setting.

“I didn’t learn Paula’s home address,” Peggy said, “which is what I was hoping to find, but I did learn a few other things. For one thing, Paula does come from California, as she said. The store labels are all from Los Angeles shops. And for another thing, I learned that her name is really Paula Andrews and her parents do have an awful lot of money.”

“How did the clothes tell you that?” Amy asked, puzzled.

“Well, some of the clothes are custom-made, and they all have labels that read, ‘Designed for Paula Andrews by Helen de Mayne.’”

“Whew!” Amy whistled. “Isn’t Helen de Mayne that famous Hollywood designer who does costumes for the stars?”

“Right,” Peggy said. “And that’s all I’ve learned from the clothing.”

“I wonder if we need to know any more,” Amy said thoughtfully. “If we want to find out anything now, can’t we just check with Helen de Mayne? She could certainly tell us who Paula’s parents are, if she designs Paula’s clothes.”

“I thought of that,” Peggy said, “but I’d rather not unless we have no other way. I don’t want to stir up anything, and if we start asking questions about Paula, we’re going to have to give some answers about why we’re asking. I would want to know what the situation is before I started to do anything like that.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Amy said, “but where are you going to look next for more answers?”

Peggy glanced despairingly about the barren, impersonal room. It didn’t seem possible that it had any more information to yield, and she was already exhausted with the psychological strain of searching. She sat down on the daybed with a sigh of resignation.

“There is no place else to look,” she said. “There isn’t even a rug to hide anything under. Besides, I don’t think that Paula’s actually hiding anything. If she were, she wouldn’t have left that make-up kit around, and all those dresses with the special Helen de Mayne labels.”

“Why don’t we look in a Los Angeles phone book?” Amy suggested.

“Doesn’t make sense,” Peggy replied. “Paula probably didn’t have a phone listed under her own name anyway. And even if she did, we don’t know where she lived. It doesn’t have to be Los Angeles, just because she had her clothes made there. You’d have to get a hundred California phone books and then start to trace every Andrews listed. And even then you might never learn anything, because wealthy people often have phone numbers that aren’t listed in the directory.”

After a few more ideas were considered and rejected, Peggy said, “I’m afraid the only thing we can do now is confront Paula with what we know, and see if we can’t persuade her to tell us the rest, and to call her parents and let them know where she is.”

It was now nine-thirty, and they had done all they could do. It would be at least another half-hour before Greta brought Paula home for her surprise party. Time dragged slowly, with neither Amy nor Peggy able to find even the shadow of an idea of what to say or do.

Amy went back to the table to fuss with the arrangement of turkey, ham and cheese and to nervously try artistic little experiments with the potato salad.

Idly, Peggy looked over the small shelf of books to see if there was something that would help her pass the time until the party—a party that she now no longer looked forward to in the least. She selected a well-worn, leather-bound volume of the _Complete Plays of Shakespeare_, hoping that the old, familiar comic world of _Twelfth Night_ would take her mind away from Paula’s problems.

She leaned back and opened the book, then sat bolt upright.

“This is it!” she almost shouted. “Amy! Here’s exactly what we’ve been looking for!”

“Shakespeare?” puzzled Amy.

“Paula’s address!” Peggy said. “Now we have something to go on—we have a way to find out who Paula’s parents are!” She thrust the book at Amy. “Here—look inside the front cover.”

In the round, neat, somewhat childish handwriting of a girl of perhaps eleven was written:

_Paula Andrews “Eagletop” Canyon Road Beverly Hills Los Angeles California The United States The Western Hemisphere Earth The Solar System The Universe_

“And that’s that,” said Peggy triumphantly.

XI Three to Make Ready....

There was still the party to be gotten through, and Peggy was so bothered by a sense of guilt at having ransacked Paula’s room that she was in no mood at all for the coming festivities.

It was nearly ten o’clock, and Peggy and Amy had barely enough time to put away the copy of Shakespeare, give a few last-minute finishing touches to the table setting, and tune in some music on the little bedside radio, when Paula and Greta arrived. On seeing her friends and the festive spread, Paula almost burst into tears, but instead, she caught hold of herself and started to laugh.

Peggy felt pleased, knowing that their gesture of friendship had touched a responsive chord in Paula’s reserve. At the same time, the pang of guilt quickened; she felt that she had betrayed the very friendship and trust she had been trying to cultivate.

Greta whispered to Peggy that seven members of the cast had contributed to the Paula Fund, exactly matching the amount given by the girls at the Gramercy Arms, and Peggy went swiftly to the kitchenette to place fourteen candles on top of the rosebud cake. While Greta and Amy kept Paula occupied, Peggy lit the candles and brought the cake to the table.

“We’re celebrating the fact that people are nice to people,” she explained, “if you only give them the chance. And that’s all the sermon that I intend to deliver this evening. We’re also celebrating the fact that you’re going to be able to eat this cake, and a lot more things besides beans and spaghetti from now on, Paula.”

But after this speech, which she felt was stuffy and sadly inadequate, Peggy couldn’t think of another thing to say. She was far too concerned with the night’s revelations about Paula, and about what they could possibly mean. Amy did much better in keeping up her end of the conversation, and Greta, of course, knowing nothing of what had happened, acted with perfect ease. In any case, Peggy thought, Paula was too excited and pleased with her party to notice how anyone was acting.

Not being the least bit hungry, Peggy forced herself to eat some of the cold cuts and cake, and to take a glass of milk. She could not help feeling like an awful hypocrite, sitting there and pretending to be a wholehearted friend to Paula, after she had just finished spying on her. Even if it had been—as it had—for her own good and the good of her obviously generous parents.

Fortunately for Peggy, the party did not last too long. Paula was tired from the night’s rehearsal which, even though short, had tried her strength. By eleven o’clock she began to yawn unobtrusively, and seemed relieved when her three friends said their farewells.

“Thank you,” she said warmly and with moist eyes, “for the lovely surprise party and—and everything else. And for being such good friends! I haven’t done anything to deserve such—”

“Nonsense!” Peggy interrupted firmly, cutting off any further thanks, and waving good-by as the elevator door slid shut. The girls rode down in silence, Peggy and Amy depressed, Greta looking at them curiously.

“All right,” Greta said when they reached the cool and empty street. “I could tell from the minute we came in that something was wrong. What is it?”

As they strolled slowly downtown, Peggy told Greta about the night’s events, starting with the discovery of the make-up kit and what it told her about the background and history of their secretive friend. She then told, shamefaced, of her deliberate decision to search Paula’s room to learn more.

“I couldn’t just turn my mind off!” she cried. “When I learned that Paula wasn’t a poor orphan after all, all I could think of was her parents and what they must be going through. I just had to find out how to reach them!”

“Nobody’s blaming you, Peggy,” Greta said. “I would have done the same thing myself. There’s no reason to feel that you did anything bad, and I’m sure that when Paula finds out, even she will feel that you only acted out of concern for others.”

Peggy respected Greta’s judgment, and her approval made things seem a lot better. With more confidence than before, and with no further apologies, she told Greta what she had learned from the labels in Paula’s clothes, and finally, about finding Paula’s home address in the copy of Shakespeare.

“Well,” Greta said, “you certainly learned a lot tonight. But the thing that puzzles me is what you’re going to do next in order to find out who her parents are without arousing all kinds of suspicions and trouble. That is, unless you just want to write or phone to ‘Eagletop’ and tell them about Paula and her whereabouts.”

“I’d rather not,” Peggy said. “I think it would be a lot better for Paula and her parents if she did that herself. But I also think that the only way to do it is to tell her that we know exactly who she is, and let her know that we intend to get in touch with her parents if she doesn’t do it herself.”

“I suppose we could do that with the information we already have,” Amy said thoughtfully.

“We could,” Peggy agreed, “but I would hate to blunder into something when we don’t have all the facts. When we find out just who Paula’s parents are, we may at the same time find some perfectly good reason why she shouldn’t call them. I’d like to give her the full benefit of the doubt until we have all the information we need.”

Greta nodded. “I think that makes sense,” she said.

“The only problem we have left now,” Peggy said with a frown, “is to find a way to get the information we need without stirring things up. If only we knew someone in Los Angeles we could trust, it would be easy. Do either of you have any ideas?”

Amy and Greta furrowed their brows and shook their heads.

Suddenly Greta slapped herself on the forehead and grinned. “Of course! Of course I know somebody—and so do you!”

“Who?” Peggy and Amy asked in chorus.

“Dot!” Greta said triumphantly. “Our housemate, Dot! You know she’s on tour with a show—and I know that her company is either in Los Angeles now, or is due to open there in a few days! We can get in touch with her at her hotel, and ask her to do some sleuthing for us. Besides, she comes from California in the first place, and she knows her way around Los Angeles. It should be easy for her to find out what we want to know!”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Peggy said enthusiastically. “Now all we have to do is go back to the Gramercy Arms and find her touring schedule and get in touch with her in Los Angeles. I can’t wait! Let’s hurry up, and if she’s in town now, we can phone right away!”

Greta looked at her watch. “If she is there, it’s too late to phone now. It’s eleven-thirty here, which makes it eight-thirty in California, and that means that the curtain is just getting ready to go up on the first act of her show. We’ll just have to be patient until tomorrow, and call her at her hotel.”

“_If_ she’s in Los Angeles now,” Amy said.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Peggy commented, “and that’s to get back to the Gramercy Arms before May Berriman goes to bed, and ask to see Dot’s traveling schedule. Otherwise we’ll have to wait until tomorrow even to know where Dot is, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to get any sleep tonight unless I know.”

The girls increased their pace and covered the remaining blocks to Gramercy Park in record time. They hurried up the steep front steps of the Gramercy Arms, happy to see that the sitting-room light was on in May Berriman’s apartment.

As soon as the door was opened, Peggy, breathless with running and excitement, asked if they could see Dot’s itinerary. “And I’m sorry we’re bothering you so late,” she added, “but we saw your light on, and....”

May Berriman dismissed the apology with a small gesture of her expressive hands. “No trouble at all, Peggy,” she said. “When you get to be my age, you’ll find that sleep isn’t quite as attractive or necessary as it used to be. I personally resent having to give up perfectly good hours to what I consider an utter waste of time. Sit down, girls. I’ll have what you need in a minute.”

In less time than that, she was back with a sheet of notepaper, which she handed to Peggy. A moment’s looking, and a quick calculation of dates, brought a sigh of disappointment. Peggy looked at the expectant faces of Greta and Amy, and nodded unhappily.

“She’s still in Salt Lake City, according to this. The show closes there tonight, and they won’t arrive in Los Angeles for two more days.”

“What’s this all about?” May Berriman asked. “That is, if I’m not butting in on something that’s not my business.”

“It’s about Paula,” Peggy explained. “You know, the girl we’re all chipping in to help. We ... we’ve got an idea about something that may help her, only we need some information that’s in California, and we hope Dot can get it for us.”

“Well, Peggy,” May Berriman said with a smile, “when they give out prizes for artful dodging, I’m going to recommend you for a first! If you didn’t want to answer my question, you only had to say so.”

Blushing, Peggy stammered, “I ... I didn’t mean ... I mean, it’s not as if there’s anything to hide ... I just....”

“There’s no reason why we shouldn’t tell May,” Greta said. “Besides, she might have some ideas that could help us.”

“All right,” Peggy said, after a moment’s reflection. “I don’t mind at all telling you about Paula, May. That’s not the point. It’s just that I did something tonight that I’m a little uncomfortable about, and I didn’t like the idea of telling you about that. Still, I did it, and there’s no changing it, so you might as well know the kind of girl I am.”

“The kind of girls we are,” Amy commented. “After all, I did it, too, and I’m no more casual about it than you are.”

May Berriman sat down in her tall, straight-backed chair, folded her hands in her lap and assumed an attentive look. “You can start talking now,” she said a little sternly.

Peggy’s story did not take long, and when she was done, she looked anxiously at the owner of the Gramercy Arms. “Do you think we did the right thing?” she asked.

“Your motives in searching Paula’s room were certainly good ones,” May Berriman said judicially, “and you didn’t actually break in, even if you did enter on slightly false pretenses. All in all, I’d say that you haven’t anything to be ashamed of. I also like your decision to get the rest of the facts and talk to Paula about them before you contact her parents. That’s both wise and considerate.”

Peggy felt a sense of relief, knowing that May, a stern and impartial judge of her girls’ conduct, approved of her night’s undertaking. “It’s been a pretty difficult time, May, as you can well imagine,” she said. “But I suspect the next few days until Dot gets to Los Angeles will be even more difficult. The three of us are simply bursting with impatience.”

“Impatience,” May Berriman said in her most theatrical voice, “is for amateurs waiting in the wings ten minutes before their cue. My best advice to you is to relax—until it’s time to go on. There’s no way to hurry the action.”

Of course, May was right. There was no way to hurry the action. On the other hand, Peggy, Amy, and Greta found that there was also no easy way to relax. The next two days dragged by only as days can drag when you want nothing more than for them to come to an end.

Rehearsals, school, studying, all took up many hours, but for the first time since Come Closer had started casting, Peggy seemed to have extra hours in the day. And each of those extra hours seemed like a day in itself.

As she went through the now-familiar routine of crowded days and nights, she could not rid her mind of the thought of Paula Andrews and of—somewhere—Paula’s parents, wondering where she was. And as Paula began to bloom from her new, nourishing diet, Peggy seemed to fade with her preoccupations.

But nothing lasts forever, and soon the two long days were at an end.

The girls put in their phone call at noon, knowing that it was only nine in Los Angeles and that Dot would surely be asleep at that hour after a late arrival the night before. It seemed a pity to wake her, but it was better than waiting and taking a chance of missing her entirely.

“What? Who? Where?” Dot’s voice, fogged with sleep and confusion, came over the three thousand miles of telephone wire as clearly as if she had been next door.

“It’s me, Dot! Peggy Lane. In New York!”

“Why?” Dot demanded, this time a little less foggy. “It’s wonderful to hear your nice, friendly, wide-awake, noontime New York voice,” she said in her normal peppery manner, “but not when I was in the middle of a dream about landing a movie lead that was going to get me an Oscar!”

“I’m sorry to wake you, Dot,” Peggy said, “but this is important, and I didn’t want to find that you’d gone out. We want you to do a favor for us.”

“What is it?” Dot asked. “It must be darned important to spend all this money to call.”

“Dot, it’s too complicated to explain why I want you to do what I’m going to ask, so don’t ask why. I want you to go to a house called Eagletop, on Canyon Road in Beverly Hills, only don’t go in. I want you to find out, in whatever way you can, who lives there. Also, I’d like you to find out if they have a daughter and where she is.”

“And how am I going to do this without going in?” Dot asked. “And why can’t I go in, anyway? I could just ring the bell and ask—”

“No!” Peggy exclaimed. “That’s just what you can’t do. And I can’t go into the whys, as I said. I’ll write you a letter. Meanwhile, the important thing is to learn what you can, and not to let anyone in the house know that you’re asking questions.”

“Well, if you say it’s important to do it this way,” Dot answered, “I’ll do my best. But how...?”

“You’ll think of a way,” Peggy said cheerfully. “You’re a bright girl!”

“Thanks,” Dot said sourly. “Your compliment puts the whole thing on my shoulders ... which is what you had in mind, I guess.”

“Well, you know the city, and we don’t, and—” Peggy began.

“I know, I know,” Dot cut her off. “Don’t worry about it. I only have to know one thing more. What do you want me to do when I find the answers?”

“Call here,” Peggy said. “If I’m not here, tell Amy or Greta or May, but not one other person. Understand?”

“Okay,” Dot agreed, “and I feel a lot better, knowing May’s in on it.”

“Good. When do you think you can go up there?”

“Right after breakfast,” Dot said. “I’ll phone you by three this afternoon—that’s six in New York. Will you be there?”

“You bet!” Peggy said. “And thanks a million, Dot!”

Peggy replaced the phone and turned to her friends. “We’ll have whatever answers Dot can dig up today. She’ll phone us by six. That is, if she doesn’t go back to sleep again.”

“And if I know our Dot,” Greta commented, “that’s a darned big ‘if.’”

XII Which Way to Go?

But Dot was as good as her word, and as resourceful as Peggy and her friends had hoped she would be. The call came through on time, the information was complete and accurate. Peggy put down the phone, turned to the expectant faces of Amy, Greta, and May, and slowly sat down as if in a daze.

“Wow!” she said quietly.

“What is it?” the girls asked in chorus.

“We’ve got our story,” Peggy said, “but I still don’t know exactly what to make of it.”

“Well, for goodness’ sake, _tell_ us!” Greta said impatiently.

Peggy gathered her thoughts for a few seconds, drew a deep breath, and began. “Paula Andrews is the daughter of Stacy Blair and—”

“Stacy Blair? The actress?” Amy gasped.

“Yes,” Peggy said. “The one and only Stacy Blair. And her father is Dean Andrews, the producer and director.”

“Wow is the word all right,” Greta said.

“I knew she looked familiar,” Amy commented. “We all felt that we had seen her somewhere before. She looks like her mother. And no wonder she’s such a good actress.”

“This answers a lot of questions,” Peggy said. “But it leaves a lot of questions, too. The big one is, with parents like that, why would Paula pretend to be an orphan? And why would she go so far with the pretense as to actually starve herself?”

“I would say that’s a question only Paula can answer,” put in May Berriman, who had been silent until now. “And I think the best thing to do is to go directly to her, tell her what you know, and ask her to give you her full confidence. After all,” she added, “you have a right to know. She’s taking money and help from you girls on—well, on false pretenses. If you’re going to help her, at least you ought to know why.”

“The money isn’t important, May,” Peggy replied. “But there are important reasons for knowing. For one thing, her parents must be terribly worried about her. And for another thing, she’s the leading lady in our play. I don’t know what kind of publicity—good or bad—would come of having her discovered once we open. I think Mal and Randy should know about this, so as to make their decisions.”

The others agreed, knowing that it would be impossible for Paula to act in the play for long without being recognized.

“I suppose it’s not important,” Amy said, “but I can’t help wondering how Dot found out all this in such a short time.”

“She’s a smart gal,” Peggy answered. “She simply took her camera and bought a cheap autograph book and started walking around the streets in the Canyon Road area, pretending to be a movie-fan tourist. She struck up a conversation with a postman, and asked a lot of questions about who lived in the houses around her. Whenever she asked about a famous person’s house, she took a snapshot. When the postman saw she wasn’t going to actually disturb any of the people on his route, he let her walk with him, and he told her a lot about the people who lived in the area. That’s how she found out about Mr. and Mrs. Andrews, and about Paula. And she found out something else, too. Paula is supposed to be in Europe.”

“In Europe?” Greta asked. “How does she know that?”

“From the letters the postman delivers.”

“You’re not making sense. How can he?” Amy complained.

“That’s the peculiar part,” Peggy said, “and it’s what I meant when I said that there would be even more questions to answer. You see, Dot said that the postman told her he delivered letters from Paula, from different parts of Europe.”

“But Paula has been right here all the time!” Amy cried.

Peggy nodded slowly. “She’s been here for about three months that we know of for sure. And the postman said that she wrote to her parents regularly, at least once a week, until recently. He said that it’s been perhaps a month since they’ve had a letter, and that her parents seem pretty worried. Every so often they wait for the mail to come, and they ask him to look again, to be sure that they don’t have a letter from Paula.”

After a moment’s silence, while they all puzzled about the meaning of this latest development, May Berriman spoke decisively. “It seems to me that every minute we waste discussing the possibilities is a minute of uncertainty and unhappiness for this girl’s parents—and for her, too. Peggy, I think you should go right to her this minute and get to the bottom of the affair immediately.”

“Oh dear,” Peggy said unhappily. “I know you’re right, but I’ve been sort of trying to put it off. I just hate to be the one to tell her that we’ve been spying on her.”

“I know how you feel, Peggy,” May Berriman said, managing to sound gentle and stern at the same time, “but after all, you—”

“I know, May,” Peggy interrupted. “You don’t have to tell me. I started the whole thing, and it’s up to me to finish it. Besides, I’ve formed a closer friendship with Paula than any of the rest of you. You’re right. I’d better do it, and I’d better do it right away.”

As she started from the room, Amy stood up to follow. “Peggy,” she called, “I’m coming, too.”

“No, Amy,” Peggy said. “It’s good of you, but I think I’d better do it alone. It may be harder for me that way, but it will be easier for Paula. I’ll meet you all down at the theater as soon as I can get there.”

With a distracted wave of her hand, she left.

On the way to Paula’s apartment, she rehearsed several possible opening phrases, several tactful approaches to the problem of telling her friend that she knew her identity. Somehow, nothing seemed quite right, and when she finally stepped out of the little elevator and knocked on Paula’s door, her mind was blank. Paula greeted her with a smile.

“Peggy! What a nice surprise! I was just thinking of calling you up. I thought we might be able to have dinner together before going down to the theater tonight.”

“I’m glad I caught you before you went out,” Peggy said. “Paula. Sit down, will you? I—I want to talk to you. You see, this isn’t exactly a—well—a social visit, although it is a friendly one. I’m coming to you as a friend, to ask you to be honest with me.”

“Honest? Why, Peggy, I....” Paula’s voice trailed off, and she became pale and still.

“Yes, you know what I mean,” Peggy said. “It’s time to be honest about yourself—and honest with yourself. You can’t go on pretending to be what you’re not. I’m sorry, Paula, but I know all about you. I know who you are, and who your parents are, and I know that they think you’re in Europe. I’ve ... I’ve been snooping.”

“Have you talked to them?” Paula asked in a quavery voice. “Do they know where I am?”

“Nobody has talked to them,” Peggy assured her. “I think you ought to do that yourself.”

“Thank goodness!” Paula breathed. “But why...?”

“Why did I poke into your affairs?” Peggy supplied. “Because I was sure that you weren’t telling me the truth about yourself, and I was sure that your parents didn’t know where you were and that they were probably worried sick, whoever they were. I wanted to find out, so that I could help you. You must believe that. I didn’t do it out of personal curiosity, Paula, but just to help you.”

“I believe that, Peggy,” Paula said. “But really, it wasn’t necessary. My parents think I’m all right. They believe I’m in Europe, and they get letters from me, and—”

“No, they don’t,” Peggy interrupted. “They haven’t received a letter in almost a month.”

“Oh, no!” Paula gasped. “I was afraid of that! But how do you know, if you haven’t spoken to them?”

“Don’t bother about that now,” Peggy said. “I think the best thing is for you to start at the beginning and tell me the whole story. Then we can put the pieces together.”

Paula nodded in silent agreement, then drew a deep breath and started.

“My parents are wonderful people,” she began. “They’ve given me everything a girl could want, and I love them dearly. They’re both understanding and talented and charming and generous ... oh, all the things you want people to be! When I decided that I wanted to be an actress, they did everything they could to help me. I was sent to the best dramatic coaches and schools, introduced to all the people who would be good to know. They helped me get placed with the best repertory theater group in California, and when I started to get good parts, they saw to it that the leading critics came out to see me. I got wonderful notices, and I got a few movie offers, but—”

“But what?” Peggy asked. “It sounds as if you had everything in the world!”

“I did,” Paula answered. “Everything except self-confidence. I was never sure whether I was getting the good parts and the good reviews because I was me, or because I was my parents’ daughter. My mother is, well, very popular with all the show people in Hollywood, as well as being a famous actress. Nobody would ever do anything to hurt her. I was afraid I was being carried along because everybody wanted to be nice to her. And my father, too. He’s well-liked, and he’s also very—influential.”

“I see,” Peggy said thoughtfully. “And you wanted to try your talent on your own. But why didn’t you explain that to your parents?”

“They thought I was being foolish,” Paula said. “They told me that I should take whatever help I could get on my way to the stage, because once I got there, I would have to stand on my own feet anyway. Maybe they were right.”

“They were,” Peggy said decisively. “And it seems to me that we had this conversation once before, and I told you the same thing. You have to be willing to be helped. I think that you believe it a little more now than you did before.”

“I guess so,” Paula agreed. “But I certainly wasn’t convinced before. When I got the movie offers, I was afraid that I would be a failure. I wanted to be sure first that I could get a part and please an audience on my own merits. So I turned down the offers. I said that I wanted to complete my education first. I asked my parents to let me spend a year in Europe, so that I could learn a little more about people and the world. They agreed, on condition that I went with a friend. My friend Nancy Frome was planning to go abroad for a year anyway. She’s several years older than I, and my parents were satisfied to have me go with her.”

“And you arranged with her that she would mail previously written letters to your parents to convince them that you were in Europe, right?” Peggy put in.

“That’s right,” Paula said. “Nancy agreed to do that, and to mail me the letters my parents sent. That way, I could answer any specific questions and make my letters sound natural. I mailed my letters to my parents over to Nancy, and she posted them from Europe.”

“But what went wrong?” Peggy asked. “How come you ran out of money, if your parents gave you enough for a year in Europe? And how come your friend stopped sending letters home?”

“I don’t know, Peggy,” Paula said earnestly. “I’ve been worried to death about it. I haven’t heard from Nancy for almost a month. You see, that’s why I ran out of money. My parents naturally didn’t want me to carry too much cash with me, so they arranged to send regular monthly checks to me at the cities I was supposed to visit. As soon as the checks came to the hotel, Nancy would send them to me in New York, I would sign them and mail them back, and Nancy would cash them in Europe. That way, the bank markings on the backs of the checks wouldn’t be from New York, but from Paris, or Milan or Rome or wherever Nancy was. Then Nancy would send me a money order. The whole process only took about a week by air mail, and it worked fine for a while.”

“It sounds complicated, but it makes sense,” Peggy said. “That is, as much sense as it could make, once you had decided to do a foolish thing. But what went wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Paula repeated miserably. “All of a sudden the money stopped coming, and I didn’t get any letters from Nancy. At that point, I didn’t know what to do. I’m convinced that Nancy either must have had an accident, or else she’s ill, because I know that I can trust her. She must be unable to send mail. I’m scared! I would have quit the show and gone to Europe to find out, but by then I didn’t have any money left. My father’s London office probably could locate her right away, but I didn’t want to call my parents and tell them, because then no good at all would have come of the whole affair. I just kept hoping each day that I’d hear from Nancy. And meanwhile, opening night was coming closer, and I thought that if I could just hold out until then—and until I saw the notices in the papers—I could tell my parents, and maybe they’d understand.”

“Well, maybe so,” Peggy said, “but, to tell you the truth, Paula, I doubt it. They’ll surely understand your desire to prove yourself, but I can’t imagine that they’ll appreciate the way you chose to do it.”

Paula nodded, looking unhappier every minute.

“What do you think I ought to do, Peggy?”

“I think you ought to call them right now and tell them you’re all right. Then you can explain what you’ve done, and see what they say.”

“No! No, Peggy! I know you’re right, but I also know what they’d do! They would come right to New York, and they’re unable to travel anywhere without being recognized and followed by reporters and photographers. And once the newspapers get hold of a story like this, it’ll be all over the place, and when opening night is over, I’ll still not know whether I was good or not—or if I made a splash because of my name and my publicity.”

“But you can’t keep them worrying any longer!” Peggy exclaimed.

“It’s not much longer, Peggy,” Paula pleaded. “We open in three days—just three more days! Then I’ll tell them!”

“I think you’re doing the wrong thing,” Peggy said, “but I suppose there’s no way I can force you to do otherwise. Of course ... I can always call them myself, but I’d rather you did it.”

“Please, Peggy! Promise me you won’t do that!” Paula begged.

“I ... I’ll think it over,” Peggy said. “I don’t want to make any promises before I think.”

Both girls sat in unhappy silence for what seemed like a long time.

“Paula,” Peggy began after a while, “I hope you’ll forgive me for—”

“Of course,” Paula interrupted. “There’s nothing to forgive. I know you were doing it for my own good. And if it hadn’t been for you—”

Peggy cut her off with an impatient nod. “Please don’t thank me for that,” she said. “As long as you know I was just trying to help. And all I want to know now is that we can keep on being friends.”

“You’re the best friend I’ve ever had,” Paula said solemnly, “and I don’t know why you even want to have anything to do with someone who’s acted as selfishly and inconsiderately as I have.”

“It’s because I want to meet your famous parents!” Peggy said, laughing.

For a moment Paula was taken aback, then she too burst out laughing. The surface strain of the meeting was broken, and in a much lighter mood, the two girls left the apartment for dinner and the night’s rehearsal.

But Peggy knew that it was only the surface that was smooth. Underneath, she still felt the strain of the last hour—of the last weeks. She had been asked to give her promise to Paula, and she had not done so. The decision was still to be made, and until it was, Peggy knew that she would not have a moment’s peace.

XIII A Decision

During rehearsal that night, and afterward, Peggy managed to have as little contact with Paula as possible. She felt that they were both talked out on the subject by now, and any further conversation would only serve to confuse the issue, rather than clarify it.

Shortly after midnight, when Mal dismissed the cast, Peggy, Amy, and Greta made a quick and unobtrusive exit and hurried back to the Gramercy Arms to discuss the matter with May Berriman.

May had been expecting a meeting this evening, and was waiting for the girls in the huge and friendly kitchen downstairs. Hot chocolate perfumed the air, and a tray of warm, freshly made cookies was set out on the long sawbuck table.

When the girls were seated, and the chocolate had been poured, Peggy repeated what Paula had told her. She finished by telling of Paula’s request that nobody contact her parents until after opening night.

“And did you agree?” May Berriman asked.

“No,” Peggy said uneasily. “I couldn’t. But I didn’t say that I would call them either. I told her that I would have to think it over.”

“What have you decided?” May asked, in a voice like a conscience.

“... I haven’t really come to a decision yet, May,” Peggy said. “I’ve been thinking about it all evening.”

“Amy? Greta? What do you think?” May Berriman pursued.

The girls shook their heads and looked at each other.

“It seems to me,” the old actress said with slow dignity, “that Peggy made her decision some days ago, even before the whole story was known.”

“What do you mean?” Peggy asked.

“I mean that I remember you saying that people were more important than plays. And that, I presume, goes for careers, too. People, and people’s feelings, are the most important thing in the world. I think that you’ve already decided to call Paula’s parents.”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Peggy answered. “Even though I agree that people and their feelings are the most important thing. You see, I have to consider Paula’s feelings, too, don’t I?”

“No,” May Berriman said firmly. “She’s been considering her own feelings long enough, and all of you have done nothing but help her to continue her foolishness. Maybe it’s because of my age, but I can’t consider her feelings anywhere near as important as the feelings of her parents. They haven’t heard from her for a month. The checks they sent haven’t been cashed. They probably are frightened to death, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they had the police forces in half the countries of Europe searching for Paula. I think it’s time somebody put a stop to it.”

The girls considered what May had said, and silently sipped their chocolate. Nobody cared to say anything, Amy and Greta each having decided individually that the final decision must come from Peggy.

It was a long time until the silence was broken.

“All right, May,” Peggy said. “I can’t argue with you, because I know you’re right. There’s nothing to do but call them, and now’s as good a time as any.”

She glanced at the tall grandfather clock in the corner. “It’s not quite ten o’clock in California now,” she said. “I’ll go upstairs and call.”

“But what if it’s an unlisted phone number?” Amy asked.

“Oh-oh,” said Peggy. “You’re right, of course, Amy. A famous star like Stacy Blair would never have a listed number. She’d be bothered to death.” She sighed impatiently. “Well, I’ll just have to send her a wire.”

“Wait a minute, Peggy,” May Berriman said suddenly. “I know someone who’s a close friend of the Andrews, and she’s right here in New York. Let me call her. She’s bound to know their number.”

May went up the stairs with surprising agility while the three girls waited in excited silence. She soon returned waving a slip of paper and announced dramatically, “I’ve got it!”

Peggy stood up and crossed the room. May handed her the slip on which the number was written. At the foot of the stairs, Peggy paused and said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Please wait up for me, will you?”

“You couldn’t get us to bed now at gunpoint!” Greta said.

Peggy went upstairs and put through the call. The Andrews telephone was answered by a woman.

“Andrews residence,” she said crisply.

“I’d like to speak to Mrs. Andrews,” Peggy said.

“Who is calling, please?”

“My name is Peggy Lane. She doesn’t know me, but I’m a friend of her daughter’s, and I have some information about her that I know Mrs. Andrews would want to hear.”

“About Miss Paula? Tell me! Is she all right? Where—?”

“Yes, yes, she’s all right,” Peggy said, somewhat impatiently. “Now, please, won’t you call Mrs. Andrews to the phone?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Lane,” the voice at the other end said, “but Mr. and Mrs. Andrews aren’t here.”

“When do you expect them back?” Peggy asked.

“I don’t know. They’re in New York now, on their way to Europe, if they haven’t left already. I believe they plan to catch a plane tonight.”

“Tonight! But ... what airline? How can I reach them if they haven’t left yet?”

“You might try the hotel in New York,” the maid said. “They had to stop over for plane connections, but I don’t know for how long. They always stay at the Plaza, and you might get them there.”

“Thank you,” Peggy said hurriedly. “I’ll call them right—”

“But wait!” the maid interrupted. “Tell me about Miss Paula! Where is she? Has she had an accident? What—?”

“She’s right here in New York!” Peggy cried. “And I can’t talk more now! I have to stop her parents before they fly off to Europe! Thank you—good-by!”

Peggy hurriedly hung up before the anxious woman could continue her questioning. Swiftly thumbing through the phone book, she picked out the number of the Plaza and dialed.

“I’m sorry,” a smooth clerkish voice answered, “but Mr. and Mrs. Andrews have already checked out.”

“When?” Peggy asked. “What time?”

“About a half hour ago,” the voice said calmly. “I believe they left for the airport.”

“I know,” Peggy said excitedly. “But which airline? Do you know, or is there any way you could find out?”

“One moment, please,” the voice replied. “Perhaps the bell captain knows.”

There was a clatter as the phone was placed on a marble surface, and Peggy waited nervously. In the background, she heard the dim noises of the hotel lobby, the thin sound of a dance tune, occasional small voices. For what seemed an endless stretch of time, she waited. At last, when it seemed that her nerves could stand not one moment more, she heard the phone being picked up.

“The bell captain says they were going to International Airways Terminal, miss,” the helpful voice said. “I’m sorry it took so much time, but I checked the doorman as well, to see if he overheard the taxi directions. Fortunately he did.”

“Thank you,” Peggy said fervently. “Thank you very much!” She rang off and then promptly dialed Randy.

A sleepy voice answered at the seventh ring. “Wha’?” Randy said.

“Randy, it’s Peggy. I’m sorry to wake you, but don’t stop to ask why. Just pull yourself together fast!”

“All right. Okay. I’m awake now,” Randy said. “What’s the trouble, Peggy?”

“I’ll explain later, when there’s time,” she said. “Right now, we haven’t a minute to lose. I want you to get dressed as fast as you can, and come right up here with the car. Make sure you have plenty of gas. I’ll be waiting.”

“But ... all right.” Randy said. “You don’t sound as if you’re kidding. I’ll see you in about ten minutes!” He hung up.

Peggy ran down to the kitchen.

“I’m afraid we’ve talked about things for too long,” she said dismally, “and acted a little too late. If only I had made up my mind an hour sooner!”

“What’s wrong?” Amy asked.

Peggy explained what had happened. “Now they’re on their way to Idlewild,” she concluded, “and I don’t know if we stand a chance of reaching them before they take off. Randy’s on his way here now, and we’re going to try to get there in time, even if it means getting a police escort or the worst speeding tickets they hand out! Mr. and Mrs. Andrews have over half an hour’s head start.”

“I think you have a good chance of making it,” May said calmly, “without exceeding the speed limits. If you are stopped by a policeman, you’ll lose more time than if Randy drives properly. Besides, their head start isn’t as great as you think it is. The airlines always make passengers arrive at least a half-hour before flight time, and most people allow even more time than that, in case of traffic delays. Still ... I admit, you haven’t got too much time to stand around talking.”

“Randy said he’d be here in ten minutes,” Peggy said, “and it’s just about that now. I’d better go. Keep your fingers crossed.” She darted up the stairs.

The two girls and May Berriman looked at each other.

“I suggest,” May Berriman said with an air of finality, “that we switch from cocoa to coffee. I think it’s going to be a long night, and I, for one, have no intention of trying to sleep until it’s all over.”

XIV Race Against Time

Peggy struggled into her coat and stepped out onto the front stoop of the Gramercy Arms just in time to see Randy’s sleek old English automobile turn the corner and pull up with a squeal of brakes in front of the steps.

She ran down the steps, wrenched open the door and slid in next to Randy.

“Idlewild Airport,” she gasped. “As fast as you can without getting stopped!”

“But—”

“No but’s,” she interrupted. “Let’s go!”

Randy put the big car smoothly into motion, turned east and headed for the Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive.

“We’re going to the International Airways Building,” Peggy said. “Do you know where it is?”

“Yes,” Randy answered. “And now that you’re settled down and have your breath back, do you mind telling me what’s happening?”

“It’s Paula,” Peggy said. “Paula’s mother is Stacy Blair, the movie star, and she’s going to Europe to hunt for Paula because she doesn’t know she’s right here in New York and we have to stop them before the plane leaves, and—”

“Wait a minute,” Randy interrupted. “Who thinks who’s in Europe and whom do we have to stop? You mean that Paula’s going to Europe to find her mother, or Paula’s mother is going to Europe to find Paula?”

“That’s right,” Peggy said. “I mean, the last thing you said is right. Paula’s mother and father are on their way to Idlewild now to catch a plane for Europe. They think Paula’s there. It’s simple.”

“It’s the most complicated piece of simplicity I’ve ever heard,” Randy commented. “Now why don’t you start from the beginning and tell it slowly and clearly? It’s not going to affect the time it takes to get to Idlewild, so you might as well relax.”

Of course it wasn’t simple, as Peggy realized once she tried to explain the whole affair. It was necessary to tell Randy how she found out about Paula, and what Paula had been trying to accomplish, and how she had found out that Paula’s parents were on their way. By the time she had finished telling it, they had left Manhattan behind them, and were speeding along the express highways of Long Island.

Every so often, coming to the top of one of the low rolling hills that make up the gigantic sandbar that is Long Island, Peggy could see the lights and towers of Manhattan, seeming never to drop much farther behind. She had, for a moment, the nightmare sensation of running, running, running with every possible effort, and getting nowhere at all.

Fortunately, the highways were nearly deserted at this late hour, and Randy was able to make good time. The powerful engine under the long hood of the big English car purred with a low, well-tuned sound as they raced through the night, past the darkened windows of houses and garden apartments. The speedometer needle quivered at the sixty mark, and Peggy kept glancing nervously behind her, expecting at any moment to see the flashing red light and hear the warning siren of a pursuing police patrol car, but none came.

Once they passed a lurking police car, waiting with darkened lights to catch a speeder, but Randy’s driving, though fast, was steady and unobtrusive. The patrol car stayed parked in the field alongside the road.

Finally, Peggy made out the searchlights of the airport, far ahead of them, and then the general glow in the sky that marked the landing strips, public buildings, lounges, and airline ticket offices.

As they approached the airport, Randy broke the silence. “I’ll drive straight to the International Airways Building,” he said, “and I’ll put the car in the employees’ parking lot. The regular parking lot takes a little more time, especially if we have to wait for a ticket. We can go right in from the employees’ lot, and worry about getting a ticket later.”

“How do we go about finding Mr. and Mrs. Andrews when we get there?” Peggy asked. “We don’t even know what plane they’re taking.”

“We shouldn’t have any trouble finding out about that,” Randy said. “I’m sure that even International Airways doesn’t have more than one plane bound for Europe at this time of night. We’ll look at the flight schedule board, and then head for the gate. At least there’s no problem about recognizing Paula’s mother when we do find her. She has one of the most famous faces in the world, I guess.”

By now they were on the approach road to Idlewild Airport, which looked like something out of a science-fiction movie. The highways curved in symmetrical patterns, crossing over and under each other, and arched over with slim, modern lamps. The airline terminal buildings, brightly lighted, were each different from the other, and different, too, from any buildings that Peggy had ever seen. One looked like a giant glass-and-steel mushroom; others, in the most modern shapes, defied simple description. The International Airways Building, one of the largest, was a long, square, crystal box, with soaring bridges and terraces connecting it to other buildings.

Randy drove under one of these bridges past the front entrance of the building, swung sharply to the right, and pulled the car into the parking lot reserved for pilots. Before anyone could come to question them, he and Peggy were out of the car, running for the entrance.

Inside, in sharp contrast to the deserted highways and sleeping landscape that they had just roared through, the terminal was alive with hurrying people. Loud-speakers were crackling with announcements, porters carried baggage in all directions, people stood in knots waiting for planes to leave or for planes to arrive. Peggy’s head swam with the excitement.

“This way!” Randy said, and grabbed her by the hand. He led her through a maze of people to a counter at the far side of the room. Behind the counter was a smartly uniformed young woman posting information on a large blackboard.

“Miss,” Randy called, “could you please tell me if there’s a plane leaving for Europe—or scheduled to leave for Europe—in the next few minutes?”

The girl smiled, stepped away from the blackboard which she had been obscuring, and pointed. “Take a look,” she said. “One left for Ireland about five minutes ago. Another takes off for Lisbon in ten minutes. Rome, fifteen minutes. Paris ... let’s see ... not for another half-hour. That enough for you?”

“Oh dear!” Peggy said. “We’ll never find them this way! Miss, we’re looking for some people who are probably scheduled to leave on one of those planes, but we don’t know which. Perhaps you can help us?”

“The General Agent has all the passenger lists,” the girl said. “You’ll find his office on the third floor, and I’m sure that you can get the information you want there.”

“But....” Peggy began.

“It’s quite simple,” the girl said efficiently. “Take the elevator to your left, and the General Agent will have your friends paged on the public address system....”

“Paged!” Peggy gasped.

“Oh, boy, are we stupid!” Randy said. “We should have done that in the first place, instead of taking this mad dash out here! Or we should have done that, too, or had the girls do it....”

“But there’s no time for that now!” Peggy said. “They might be boarding a plane this very minute!” She turned again to the now puzzled girl. “Maybe you’ve seen them,” she began. “We’re looking for—”

“I’m sorry,” the girl said primly, “but I’m not allowed to give any information about passengers, even if I do know their names. Which I never do.”

“We’re looking for Mr. and Mrs. Dean Andrews,” Peggy went on, ignoring the girl’s disclaimer. “She’s Stacy Blair, the famous movie—”

“Stacy Blair!” the girl exclaimed. “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? Of course I’ve seen her! How could anyone miss? Why, I never—”

“Has she left yet?” Randy interrupted.

“Not yet,” the girl said, annoyed at being cut off. “She’s scheduled to take the Lisbon plane that leaves in eight minutes. But if you’re looking for an autograph, you don’t have a chance. I tried myself, and she didn’t even look at me. She’s in some sort of a bad mood, and won’t talk to people. A lot of the girls and passengers tried, but—”

“Lisbon! Gate fifteen!” Peggy read from the notice board. “Thanks!” she called back to the uniformed girl as she and Randy hurried for the exit that led to the passenger loading gates.

They dashed past the gate attendant with a hurried explanation that they just had to see somebody off. Before he could stop them, they were racing down the long corridor past the numbered passenger gates. Through the broad windows, they could see a large jet plane, its door opened and a boarding ramp being wheeled up to its side. Through the trap below the plane, they saw luggage being loaded.

“That must be it!” Randy panted.

“Attention, please!” rasped the loud-speaker. “Your attention, please! Flight number two-oh-seven for Lisbon now taking on passengers at gate fifteen! Gate fifteen! Will all passengers for Lisbon please go to gate fifteen....”

“Good!” Peggy gasped. “We’re ahead of them! All we have to do is wait at the gate and we’re sure to see them!”

They slackened their pace somewhat, as they saw that nobody was at the loading gate but a uniformed airline official who was waiting to inspect the passengers’ tickets before letting them board. As they pulled up breathlessly at the railing, the man smiled.

“You didn’t have to rush,” he said. “We’re just boarding now, and we won’t be taking off for another ten minutes or so.”

“Oh, we’re not flying,” Peggy explained. “We just wanted to be here first so that we wouldn’t miss some people we want to see.”

“Oh, seeing off some friends,” the uniformed man said. “You must really be fond of them to come out at a late hour like this just for the fun of waving good-by!”

“Well, you might say that,” Randy said, reluctant to give away the real purpose of their visit.

“If you wait right here, you can’t miss them,” the man smiled. “In fact, here come the first ones now.”

Looking down the long corridor, Peggy and Randy saw a knot of passengers approaching at a leisurely pace. None of them seemed, even at this distance, to be Stacy Blair. Peggy cast a puzzled look at Randy.

“They’ll probably be along in a minute or two,” he said reassuringly. “I guess it’s only the new travelers who hurry to be the first on board.”

They stood quietly by as the passengers checked in, one by one, offering their tickets for inspection to the uniformed official. As each passenger passed through the gate, the inspector checked off his or her name against a master list on his little standing desk.

Peggy watched with mounting alarm as name after name was checked off, and still Paula’s parents did not appear. Catching her expression, the airline official paused in his paperwork.

“Say,” he said, “you’re not waiting for Mr. and Mrs. Blackstone, are you? Because if you are, I got word that they had canceled, and your trip out here would be for nothing.”

“No,” Peggy said, “not Blackstone. Why?”

“Because everybody else is on board already!” he replied. “Sure you have the right flight number?”

“I certainly hope so!” Peggy said. “Please, may I see your passenger list?”

“Sure. Help yourself.” He moved aside from the desk to let her look.

At the top of the list stood the names of Mr. and Mrs. Dean Andrews.

“This is the right flight, all right,” Peggy said. “We’re waiting to see Mr. and Mrs. Andrews—and they surely didn’t come on board!”

“Not when you were looking,” the man said with a grin. “Sorry, kids, but you’ll have to collect your autographs some other time. Mr. and Mrs. Andrews were allowed to board before the other passengers, just so they could avoid being noticed. It seems that everybody wants Stacy Blair’s autograph, and she had a headache or something. Tough luck!”

“We’re not autograph hunters,” Peggy said, “but we have to see Mr. and Mrs. Andrews! Can we please go on board? It’s very important!”

The man shook his head. “Sorry. It’s strictly against the rules.”

“But—”

“You sure are a persistent girl,” he interrupted, “but it’s not going to do you any good. Now why don’t you just run along and chase some other movie star? Mrs. Andrews asked to be left alone, and we’re going to do everything we can to see that her wishes are—Hey!”

Realizing that further discussion would be useless, Peggy decided that the time had come for direct action. She simply ran through the gate and out on to the field. Before the uniformed man could get around the railing and start in pursuit, she had already covered half the distance to the waiting jet.

“Stop!” She heard a shout behind her. Still running, she turned her head in time to see Randy grab the man by the sleeve to hold him back. Hoping that Randy wouldn’t get into a fight or in any serious trouble, she ran straight on and up the steps of the boarding ramp where a stewardess with a startled expression stood waiting for her.

Knowing what the answer would be to any explanations she might make, Peggy simply dashed past her, muttering, “Excuse me!” before the surprised girl could stop her.

In the softly lighted cabin, all that Peggy could see were the backs of heads. She knew that she must find Mr. and Mrs. Andrews in a hurry, or she would be put off the plane before she ever got a chance to speak to them. There was no time to go quietly from seat to seat looking for the familiar features of Paula’s mother. Peggy drew a deep breath, looked once around her, and shouted:

“Mr. Andrews! Mr. Andrews! Telegram!”

There was a sudden silence in the plane, then a murmur as heads swiveled around and saw a young girl standing in the aisle, nervously biting her lip. Among the heads was the beautiful but worn and strained face of Stacy Blair. Peggy ran down the aisle, the stewardess close behind her.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Mr. Andrews began angrily. “Who are you, and what do you—”

“Please!” Peggy interrupted, almost whispering. “It’s about Paula!”

The airline stewardess reached them, grabbed Peggy’s arm, and said, “I couldn’t stop her, Mr. Andrews! I’m sorry, but—”

“Wait, please!” Paula’s mother said, as the stewardess started to force Peggy away. The girl relaxed her grip. The famous actress looked at Peggy and said, “What about Paula?”

“She’s right here in New York,” Peggy whispered, conscious of the surrounding passengers, whose attention was riveted on the strange, dramatic scene. “I’m her friend, and I came to stop you from going to Europe. I’m sorry I caused such a fuss ... but they didn’t want to let me on the plane, and—”

“Wait, please,” Mr. Andrews interrupted in a quiet voice. “This is no place to talk.” He turned to his wife. “Stacy, we’re not taking this plane. Don’t say a word now. We’ll talk where it’s more private.”

Paula’s father instructed the baffled stewardess to see to it that their luggage was removed, then shepherded his wife and Peggy out of the plane, leaving behind a cabin full of puzzled, buzzing passengers.

“Are ... are you sure about this?” Paula’s mother said to her husband.

“No,” he said calmly, “but we can’t leave here until we are sure, one way or the other.”

At the passenger gate, they found Randy—uncomfortably under the guard of two airport policemen. The official who had tried to stop Peggy was sitting on a stool with an angry expression and what looked like the beginning of a classic black eye.

“This is my friend, Randy Brewster,” Peggy said. “He drove me out here, and it looks as if he had to do some fighting to see to it that I got on the plane.”

Randy grinned sheepishly. “Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Andrews.”

Mr. Andrews smiled at Randy. To the policemen he said, “Let him come along with us, please.”

“I dunno, Mr. Andrews,” one of the policemen said. “I think Mr. Watkins here wants to hold him on an assault charge.”

“I was just trying to protect you, Mrs. Andrews,” the official said, “but if he is a friend of yours, as he says he is, I suppose I ought to apologize instead of pressing charges.”

“Yes, he’s a friend,” Mrs. Andrews said, adding under her breath, “at least I think he is!”

“Well ... no charge, then,” the uncomfortable Mr. Watkins said.

Randy was released and fell into step alongside Peggy and Paula’s parents as they walked down the corridor.

“This had better be on the up-and-up,” Mr. Andrews said darkly, “or I’ll see to it that both of you face a good deal more than a simple assault charge as a result of it!”

He cut off Peggy’s protestations, saying that he didn’t want to say one more word until they were seated in privacy in the airport restaurant. The next minutes until they reached their destination were spent in uncomfortable silence.

Once seated, after introductions and assurances that Paula was safe and well, Peggy recited the story that had by now become as familiar to her as her lines in the play. Carefully, omitting nothing, she explained what Paula had tried to do, and how things had gone wrong. She explained her own part in Paula’s life, and how she had decided, on May Berriman’s advice, to disregard her friend’s wishes and call her parents. Then she told of her fast detective work in tracing them to the hotel and the airport, and of the final dash for the plane.

“So there was nothing I could do but stand there and yell,” she concluded. “I’m sorry it caused such a fuss, but I didn’t know how else to find you before they put me off the plane. Anyway, that brings us to here.”

“It’s quite a story,” Mr. Andrews said. “Both of us are very grateful to you, Peggy, for the care you’ve taken of Paula and for your concern about us. And we’re grateful to you too, Randy,” he added.

“We are,” Paula’s mother echoed, a smile lighting her face. “Now, my dear, will you please take us to Paula?”

“I ... I was afraid you’d ask that,” Peggy said. “I will, of course, if you really insist on it, but I wish you’d think about it awhile first. Paula has gone through so much—and put both of you through so much, too—just to prove something to herself. If you go to her now, her whole effort will have been wasted. I think you ought to let her stay in obscurity for just a few days longer until we open the show, and give her the chance she wanted.”

“I understand your point of view, Peggy,” Paula’s mother said, “but can’t you understand mine? All I want is to see my daughter and be sure that she’s safe and well!”

“Can’t you take my word for that, please?” Peggy begged. “You’ve waited so long, what does it matter if you wait another three days until opening night? If you do that, then Paula will get the chance she wants, and I won’t feel so miserable about having called you when she asked me not to. I just want everybody—you two and Paula—to be happy. Won’t you please wait and give her a chance to prove to herself that she’s as good as we all know she is?”

“Is she good?” her mother asked fervently.

“She’s wonderful!” Peggy and Randy said in chorus.

“I knew it! I knew it!” The famous actress beamed. “I _knew_ all those good reviews weren’t just because of us....”

“Then you had your doubts too, didn’t you, Mrs. Andrews?” Randy put in quickly.

“Why ... why, not really,” Paula’s mother answered, taken aback. “But, still....”

“But still, even though you were sure Paula is a good actress, you never knew for a fact that the critics sincerely thought so too!” Randy said.

“In a way, I suppose you’re right,” Mrs. Andrews said.

“Then you can understand Paula’s view?” Peggy asked.

“Yes. I can understand.”

“Peggy,” Mr. Andrews said, “I’m willing to wait a few days to see her, if you really think it’s best—and if my wife agrees. But what harm would it do for us to call her on the phone?”

“It would be the same thing,” Peggy said. “She’d know that you’re in town, and she’d start to suspect that you were doing things for her again. Besides, it might throw her into such a state of excitement that she wouldn’t do her best on opening night.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Paula’s mother said thoughtfully. “Nerves do get on edge close to opening, and from what you tell me, I can’t imagine that Paula’s are in the best of shape now.”

“Then you’ll wait?” Peggy asked.

“Yes, Peggy, I’ll wait. If only as a favor to you. Heaven knows, we owe you a favor for all you’ve done. Do you agree, dear?”

Mr. Andrews looked thoughtful. “All right,” he said at length. “But we’re going to be at the opening! We’ll sit in the back of the house so she won’t see us. My wife will have to wear a veil or a false mustache or something, but you can bet we’re going to be there!”

“We’ll put you in the projection booth!” Randy said. “You’ll have a perfect view, and nobody will see you at all!”

“Fine,” Mr. Andrews agreed. “And what do you want us to do until opening night? Shall we just hang around New York, or shall we lie low somewhere?”

“It does sound like a conspiracy, doesn’t it?” Peggy laughed.

“It is,” Paula’s mother said. “And Mr. Andrews has a point. We two are considered to be—well—newsworthy, you know. And while it’s not much of a story just to leave for Europe, it would be considered a story if the papers found out about our sudden cancellation of the trip. If that gets into the papers, and Paula sees it, she’ll know we’re in town, and she’ll probably be more nervous than ever. Shouldn’t we go somewhere?”

“We should,” Mr. Andrews said, getting up from the table. “And before we waste any more time, I’d better get hold of those policemen and that Mr. Watkins and see that they don’t start talking to any reporters about tonight.”

He returned somewhat later, looking pleased with himself.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ve taken care of them, and I’ve rented a car. We’re going to do something we’ve both wanted to do for years, and haven’t had time for. We’re taking a nice, leisurely sight-seeing trip by car. We won’t come back till opening night, and then we’ll go straight to the theater!”

Final plans were hurriedly made for the trip, and for the timing of their arrival on opening night, as Peggy and Randy walked Mr. and Mrs. Andrews to their waiting car. Good nights and thanks were exchanged once more.

By the time that Randy delivered Peggy to the doorstep of the Gramercy Arms, the first light of dawn was showing in the east. It was nearly five in the morning. Through the kitchen windows at street level, Peggy could see May Berriman, Amy, and Greta, surrounded by coffee cups, doggedly waiting up for her. It would still be awhile, she knew, before she would get to bed.

XV