Читать книгу A Battle for Right; Or, A Clash of Wits онлайн

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“Don’t, Mr. Gordon! You torment yourself needlessly. Take my advice and go back home. I must leave you now. My father is going on to play his violin solo. He does a trick act, you know—plays the violin in all sorts of curious ways. Uses only one string, imitates cries of animals and birds, and so on. He doesn’t like to do it, for he is an accomplished musician, and he feels that he is degrading his art. But the audience demands it, and he is such a master of his instrument that he can do anything.”

“Good-bye, Bessie. I am going away from this place. I hope I shall see you again. You and your father travel about, and you’re quite likely to come to some camp where I am. Good-bye! Remember me to your father, Mr. Silvius.”

Before the girl could reply, Bob Gordon—or Howard Milmarsh, which, of course, was his real name—had dashed away into the darkness.

Bessie Silvius made her way slowly to the back of the stage.

It was not until the girl and Bob Gordon had both gone that a man came out from behind a large bush where he had been crouching, listening to the conversation. He was in evening dress, but his shirt front was crumpled and bore stains from the bush, while his whole suit looked as if it needed pressing.