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“Sorry, Miss Sargent,” said one of the men. “Didn't mean to be persistent, really . . . but you know, there is so little to take hold of, in this case, that we're apt to talk about the only thing we know something about, even though it looks stupid.”

“I know,” she said, more patiently. “I didn’t mean to be nasty. I’m just a little tired, you know. Is there anything else I can do for you, or tell you, now?”

“I wish there were, Miss Sargent, but there doesn’t seem to be. Guess we got about all that we can get right now,” he nodded at me.

“More,” I said. “I'll probably get hell for talking too much, when I make my report . . . but I guess it’ll be all right.”

They turned to go out, and I turned back to Betty Sargent, and saw that she was standing at one side of the stage now, as though waiting for some one. I approached her.

“Waiting for anybody, Miss Sargent?” I asked, not that I had anything real to talk to her about, but just from the pure joy of being in her company and hearing her voice. Her answer was surprising.

“Yes . . . I’m waiting for you,” she said.

I looked my inquiry, though I will say that it sent a thrill of joy through me to think that she was waiting for me, no matter what the business, and regardless of how impersonal it was.