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Berlin didn't bother to inquire. He'd grabbed his coat and run down the street to the cabaret where he'd seen that little blonde.
He swung open the heavy door now to the New Amsterdam and hurried her down the aisle. The stage was lit and a dozen or more people milled restlessly back and forth.
"I've got her," he yelled.
On stage, a tall blond man wheeled, tossed away his cigarette and took a crazy daring leap over the orchestra pit to land beside her. Vernon Castle was taking flying lessons, she'd read that in the papers, but he literally flew without wings.
"You'll do it for us ! Good girl," he said in his British accent. "Come along now, let's get started."
He introduced Sallie Fisher, Charles King, Elizabeth Brice, Harry Kelly, Frank Tinney. But she didn't believe it; they looked so different, Tinney without his blackface.
"This is little Mae Murray. She's going to see we're not dark tonight."
They studied her curiously and she thrust her chin high like Bernhardt in L'Aiglon so that they drifted away with only a word or two. "Good luck."
"You might as well all take a break while we run through the Castle numbers." Vernon took her hand. Berlin was at the piano.
"I must have rehearsal clothes," she said. "Can you send to the Sans Souci?"
Vernon whistled for Stella and Stella's eyebrows flew up to her frizzled red hair. "Take Miss Murray to Irene's dressing room, Stella. Find her something to wear."
The redhead didn't know what to make of that. Leading the way, she unlocked the door into a room hung from floor to ceiling with orchid-blue taffeta, trailing away over matching carpets. Stella lifted her feet carefully over the carpet and brought sweat shirt and bloomers. They were huge. Mae giggled into a gold-framed mirror.