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 The act went on, a blaze of color, a riot of sound and movement, to its end. At the fall of the curtain Wade arose. "I want to speak to someone, Dave," he explained. Dave winked gravely and pulled himself out of his seat. "So do I," he said. They parted at the stairs and Wade sought the nearest usher. The box, he learned was the Pearse box and the subscriber herself was the little silver-haired lady in the steel gray satin. But the usher didn't know the young lady in light blue. Neither did the next usher, nor the next. But Wade was satisfied. They would give him the address of the box holder at the office, and if need be, the little silver-haired lady must supply the rest of the information he desired. As an indication of his condition of mind—or heart—I may say that it didn't occur to him then that to apply to a total stranger for the name and address of a guest at the opera would be either outre or ridiculous. He rescued Dave and hurried back to his seat, fearful lest the girl should