Wallace Edgar
The Secret House
CHAPTER IV
It was a bad night in London, not wild or turbulent, but swathed to the eyes like an Eastern woman in a soft grey garment of fog. It engulfed the walled canyons of the city, through which the traffic had roared all day, plugged up the maze of dark side-streets, and blotted out the open squares. Close to the ground it was thick, viscous, impenetrable, so that one could not see a yard ahead, and walked ghostlike, adventuring into a strange world.
Occasionally it dispersed. In front of the Jollity Theatre numbers of arc-lights wrought a wavering mist-hung yellow space, into which a constant line of vehicles, like monstrous shiny beetles, emerged from the outer nowhere, disgorged their contents, and were eclipsed again. And pedestrians in gay processional streamed across the rudy glistening patch like figures on a slide.
Conspicuous in the shifting throng was a sharp-faced boy, ostensibly selling newspapers, but with a keen eye upon the arriving vehicles. Suddenly he darted to the curb, where an electric coupe had just drawn up. A man alighted heavily, and turned to assist a young woman.
For an instant the lad's attention was deflected by the radiant vision. The girl, wrapped in a voluminous cloak of ivory colour, was tall and slim, with soft white throat and graceful neck; her eyes under shadowy lashes were a little narrow, but blue as autumn mist, and sparkling now with amusement.
"Watch your steps, auntie," she warned laughingly, as a plump, elderly, little lady stepped stiffly from the coupe. "These London fogs are dangerous."
The boy stood staring at her, his feet as helpless as if they had taken root to the ground. Suddenly he remembered his mission. His native impudence reasserted itself, and he started forward.
"Paper, sir?"
He addressed the man. For a moment it seemed as though he were to be rebuffed, then something in the boy's attitude changed his mind.
As the man fumbled in an inner pocket for change, the lad took a swift inventory. The face beneath the tall hat was a powerful oval, paste-coloured, with thin lips, and heavy lines from nostril to jaw. The eyes were close set and of a turbid grey.
"It's him," the boy assured himself, and opened his mouth to speak.
The girl laughed amusedly at the spectacle of her companion's passion for news in this grimy atmosphere, and turned to the young man in evening dress who had just dismissed his taxi and joined the group.
It was the diversion the boy had prayed for. He took a quick step toward the older man.
"T. B. S.," he said, in a soft but distinct undertone.
The man's face blanched suddenly, and a coin which he held in his large, white-gloved palm slipped jingling to the pavement.
The young messenger stooped and caught it dexterously.
"T. B. S.," he whispered again, insistently.
"Here?" the answer came hoarsely. The man's lips trembled.
"Watchin' this theatre – splits1 by the million," finished the boy promptly, and with satisfaction. Under cover of returning the coin, he thrust a slip of white paper into the other's hand.
Then he wheeled, ducked to the girl with a gay little swagger of impudence, threw a lightning glance of scrutiny at her young escort, and turning, was lost in the throng.
The whole incident occupied less than a minute, and presently the four were seated in their box, and the gay strains from the overture of The Strand Girl came floating up to them.
"I wish I were a little street gamin in London," said the girl pensively, fingering the violets at her corsage. "Think of the adventures! Don't you, Frank?"
Frank Doughton looked across at her with smiling significant eyes, which brought a flush to her cheeks.
"No," he said softly, "I do not!"
The girl laughed at him and shrugged her round white shoulders.
"For a young journalist, Frank, you are too obvious – too delightfully verdant. You should study indirection, subtlety, finesse – study our mutual friend Count Poltavo!"
She meant it mischievously, and produced the effect she desired.
At the name the young man's brow darkened.
"He isn't coming here to-night?" Doughton asked, in aggrieved tones.
The girl nodded, her eyes dancing with laughter.
"What can you see in that man, Doris?" he protested. "I'll bet you anything you like that the fellow's a rogue! A smooth, soft-smiling rascal! Lady Dinsmore," he appealed to the elder woman, "do you like him?"
"Oh, don't ask Aunt Patricia!" cried the girl. "She thinks him quite the most fascinating man in London. Don't deny it, auntie!"
"I shan't," said the lady, calmly, "for it's true! Count Poltavo" – she paused, to inspect through her lorgnette some new-comers in the opposite box, where she got just a glimpse of a grey dress in the misty depths of the box, the whiteness of a gloved hand lying upon the box's edge – "Count Poltavo is the only interesting man in London. He is a genius." She shut her lorgnette with a snap. "It delights me to talk with him. He smiles and murmurs gay witticisms and quotes Talleyrand and Lucullus, and all the while, in the back of his head, quite out of reach, his real opinions of you are being tabulated and ranged neatly in a row like bottles on a shelf."
Doris nodded thoughtfully.
"I'd like to take down some of those bottles," she said. "Some day perhaps I shall."
"They're probably labelled poison," remarked Frank viciously. He looked at the girl with a growing sense of injury. Of late she had seemed absolutely changed towards him; and from being his good friend, with established intimacies, she had turned before his very eyes into an alien, almost an enemy, more beautiful than ever, to be true, but perverse, mocking, impish. She flouted him for his youth, his bluntness, his guileless transparency. But hardest of all to bear was the delicate derision with which she treated his awkward attempts to express his passion for her, to speak of the fever which had taken possession of him, almost against his will. And now, he reflected bitterly, with this velvet fop of a count looming up as a possible rival, with his savoir faire, and his absurd penchant for literature and art, what chance had he, a plain Briton, against such odds? – unless, as he profoundly believed, the chap was a crook. He determined to sound her guardian.
"Mr. Farrington," he asked aloud, "what do you think – hallo!" He sprang up suddenly and thrust out a supporting arm.
Farrington had risen, and stood swaying slightly upon his feet. He was frightfully pale, and his countenance was contracted as if in pain. He lifted a wavering hand to his head.
With a supreme effort he steadied himself.
"Doris," he asked quickly, "I meant to ask you – where did you leave Lady Constance?"
The girl looked up in surprise.
"I haven't seen her to-day – she went down to Great Bradley last night – didn't she, auntie?"
The elder woman nodded.
"Mannish, and not a little discourteous I think," she said, "leaving her guests and motoring through the fog to the country. I sometimes think Constance Dex is a trifle mad."
"I wish I could share your views," said Farrington, grimly.
He turned abruptly to Doughton.
"Look after Doris," he said. "I have remembered – an engagement."
He beckoned Frank, with a scarcely perceptible gesture, and the two men passed out of the box.
"Have you discovered anything?" he asked, when they were outside.
"About what?" asked Frank, innocently.
A grim smile broke the tense lines of Mr. Farrington's face.
"Really!" he said, drily, "for a young man engaged in most important investigations you are casual."
"Oh! – the Tollington business," said the other. "No, Mr. Farrington, I have found nothing. I don't think it is my game really – investigating and discovering people. I'm a pretty good short story writer but a pretty rotten detective. Of course, it is awfully kind of you to have given me the job – "
"Don't talk nonsense," snapped the older man. "It isn't kindness – it's self-interest. Somewhere in this country is the heir to the Tollington millions. I am one of the trustees to that estate and I am naturally keen on discovering the man who will relieve me of my responsibility. There is a hundred pounds awaiting the individual who unearths this heir."
He glanced at his watch.
"There is one other thing I want to speak to you about – and that is Doris."
They stood in the little corridor which ran at the back of the boxes, and Frank wondered why he had chosen this moment to discuss such urgent and intimate matters. He was grateful enough to the millionaire for the commission he had given him – though with the information to go upon, looking for the missing Tollington heir was analogous to seeking the proverbial needle – but grateful for the opportunity which even this association gave him for meeting Doris Gray, he was quite content to continue the search indefinitely.
"You know my views," the other went on – he glanced at his watch again. "I want Doris to marry you. She is a dear girl, the only human being in the world for whom I have any affection." His voice trembled, and none could doubt his sincerity. "Somehow I am getting nervous about things – that shooting which I witnessed the other night has made me jumpy – go in and win."
He offered a cold hand to the other, and Frank took it, then, with a little jerk of his head, and a muttered "shan't be gone long," he passed into the vestibule, and out into the foggy street. A shrill whistle brought a taxi from the gloom.
"The Savoy," said Farrington. He sprang in, and the cab started with a jerk.
A minute later he thrust his head from the window.
"You may drop me here," he called. He descended and paid his fare. "I'll walk the rest of the way," he remarked casually.
"Bit thickish on foot to-night, sir," offered the driver respectfully. "Better let me set you down at the hotel." But his fare was already lost in the enveloping mist.
Farrington wrapped his muffler closely about his chin, pulled down his hat to shadow his eyes, and hurried along like a man with a set destination.
Presently he halted and signalled to another cab, crawling along close to the curb.
CHAPTER V
The fog was still heavy, and the blurred street-lamps looked ghastly in the yellow mist, when the little newsboy messenger, the first half of his mission performed, struck briskly riverward to complete his business. He disposed of his papers by the simple expedient of throwing them into a street refuse-bin. He jumped on a passing 'bus, and after half an hour's cautious drive reached Southwark. He entered one of the narrow streets leading from the Borough. Here the gas lamps were fewer, and the intersecting streets more narrow and gloomy.
He plunged down a dark and crabbed way, glancing warily behind him now and then to see if he was being followed.
Here, between invisible walls, the fog hung thick and warm and sticky, crowding up close, with a kind of blowsy intimacy that whispered the atmosphere of the place. Occasionally, close to his ear, snatches of loose song burst out, or a coarse face loomed head-high through the reek.
But the boy was upon his native heath and scuttled along, whistling softly between closed teeth, as, with a dexterity born of long practice, he skirted slush and garbage sinks, slipped around the blacker gulfs that denoted unguarded basement holes, and eluded the hideous shadows that lurched by in the gloom.
Hugging the wall, he presently became aware of footsteps behind him. He rounded a corner, and, turning swiftly, collided with something which grabbed him with great hands. Without hesitation, the lad leaned down and set his teeth deep into the hairy arm.
The man let go with a hoarse bellow of rage and the boy, darting across the alley, could hear him stumbling after him in blind search of the narrow way.
As he sped along a door suddenly opened in the blank wall beside him, and a stream of ruddy light gushed out, catching him square within its radiance, mud-spattered, starry-eyed, vivid.
A man stood framed in the doorway.
"Come in," he commanded, briefly.
The boy obeyed. Surreptitiously he wiped the wet and mud from his face and tried to reduce his wild breathing.
The room which he entered was meagre and stale-smelling, with bare floor and stained and sagging wall-paper; unfurnished save for a battered deal table and some chairs.
He sank into one of them and stared with frank curiosity past his employer, who had often entrusted him with messages requiring secrecy, past his employer's companion, to the third figure in the room – a prostrate figure which lay quite still under the heavy folds of a long dark ulster with its face turned to the wall.
"Well?" It was a singularly agreeable voice which aroused him, soft and well-bred, but with a faint foreign accent. The speaker was his employer, a slender dark man, with a finely carved face, immobile as the Sphinx. He had laid aside his Inverness and top hat, and showed himself in evening dress with a large – perhaps a thought too large – buttonhole of Parma violets, which sent forth a faint fragrance.
Of the personality of the man the messenger knew nothing more than that he was foreign, eccentric in a quiet way, lived in a grand house near Portland Place, and rewarded him handsomely for his occasional services. That the grand house was an hotel at which Poltavo had run up an uncomfortable bill he could not know.
The boy related his adventures of the evening, not omitting to mention his late pursuer.
The man listened quietly, brooding, his elbows upon the table, his inscrutable face propped in the crotch of his hand. A ruby, set quaintly in a cobra's head, gleamed from a ring upon his little finger. Presently he roused.
"That's all to-night, my boy," he said, gravely.
He drew out his purse, extracted a sovereign, and laid it in the messenger's hand.
"And this," he said, softly, holding up a second gold piece, "is for – discretion! You comprehend?"
The boy shot a swift glance, not unmixed with terror, at the still, recumbent figure in the corner, mumbled an assent and withdrew. Out in the dampness of the fog, he took a long, deep breath.
As the door closed behind him, the door of an inner room opened and Farrington came out. He had preceded the messenger by five minutes. The young exquisite leaned back in his chair, and smiled into the sombre eyes of his companion.
"At last!" he breathed, softly. "The thing moves. The wheels are beginning to revolve!"
The other nodded gloomily, his glance straying off toward the corner of the room.
"They've got to revolve a mighty lot more before the night's done!" he replied, with heavy significance.
"I needn't tell you," he continued, "that we must move in this venture with extreme caution. A single misstep at the outset, the slightest breath of suspicion, and pff! the entire superstructure falls to the ground."
"That is doubtless true, Mr. Farrington," murmured his companion, pleasantly. He leaned down to inhale the fragrant scent of the violets. "But you forget one little thing. This grand superstructure you speak of – so mysteriously" – he hid a slight smile – "I don't know it – all. You have seen fit, in your extreme caution, to withhold complete information from me."
He paused, and regarded his companion with a level, steady gaze. A faint, ironical smile played about the corners of his mouth; he spoke with a slightly foreign accent, which was at once pleasant and piquant.
"Is it not so, my friend?" he asked, softly. "I am – how you say – left out in the cold – I do not even know your immediate plans."
His countenance was serene and unruffled, and it was only by his slightly quickened breathing that the conversation held any unusual significance.
The other stirred uneasily in his chair.
"There are certain financial matters," he said, with a light air.
"There are others immediately pressing," interrupted his companion. "I observe, for example, that your right hand is covered by a glove which is much larger than that on your left. I imagine that beneath the white kid there is a thin silk bandage. Really, for a millionaire, Mr. Farrington, you are singularly – shall I say – 'furtive'?"
"Hush!" whispered Farrington, hoarsely. He glanced about half-fearfully.
The younger man ignored the outburst. He laid a persuasive hand upon his companion's arm.
"My friend," he said gravely, "let me give you a bit of good advice. Believe me, I speak disinterestedly. Take me into your counsel. I think you need assistance – and I have already given you a taste of my quality in that respect. This afternoon when I called upon you in your home in Brakely Square, suggesting that a man of my standing might be of immense value to you, you were at first innocently dull, then suspicious. After I told you of my adventures in the office of a certain Society journal you were angry. Frankly," the young man shrugged his shoulders, "I am a penniless adventurer – can I be more frank than that? I call myself Count Poltavo – yet the good God knows that my family can give no greater justification to the claim of nobility than the indiscretions of lovely Lydia Poltavo, my grandmother, can offer. For the matter of that I might as well be prince on the balance of probability. I am living by my wits: I have cheated at cards, I have hardly stopped short of murder – I need the patronage of a strong wealthy man, and you fulfill all my requirements."
He bowed slightly to the other, and went on:
"You challenged me to prove my worth – I accepted that challenge. To-night, as you entered the theatre, you were told by a messenger that T. B. Smith – a most admirable man – was watching you – that he had practically surrounded the Jollity with detectives, and, moreover, I chose as my messenger a small youth who has served you more than once. Thus at one stroke I proved that not only did I know what steps authority was taking to your undoing, but also that I had surprised this splendid rendezvous – and your secret."
He waived his hand around the sordid room, and his eyes rested awhile upon the silent, ulster-covered figure on the bed; his action was not without intent.
"You are an interesting man," said Farrington, gruffly. He looked at his watch. "Join my party at the Jollity," he said; "we can talk matters over. Incidentally, we may challenge Mr. Smith." He smiled, but grew grave again. "I have lost a good friend there" – he looked at the form on the bed; "there is no reason why you should not take his place. Is it true – what you said to-day – that you know something of applied mechanics?"
"I have a diploma issued by the College of Padua," said the other promptly.
CHAPTER VI
At precisely ten o'clock, as the curtain came reefing slowly down upon the first act of The Strand Girl, Lady Dinsmore turned with outstretched hand to greet the first of the two men who had just entered the box.
"My dear Count," she exclaimed, "I am disappointed in you! Here I have been paying you really quite tremendous compliments to these young people. I presume you are on Gregory's 'business'?"
"I am desolated!"
Count Poltavo had a way of looking at one gravely, with an air of concentrated attention, as if he were seeing through the words, into the very soul of the speaker. He was, indeed, a wonderful listener, and this quality, added to a certain buoyancy of temperament, accounted perhaps for his popularity in such society as he had been able to penetrate.
"Before I ask you to name the crime, Lady Dinsmore," he said, "permit me to offer my humblest apologies for my lateness."
Lady Dinsmore shook her head at him and glanced at Farrington, but that dour man had drawn a chair to the edge of the box, and was staring moodily down into the great auditorium.
"You are an incorrigible!" she declared, "but sit down and make your excuses at your leisure. You know my niece, and I think you have met Mr. Doughton. He is one of our future leaders of thought!"
The Count bowed, and sank into a chair beside his hostess.
Frank, after a frigidly polite acknowledgement, resumed his conversation with Doris, and Lady Dinsmore turned to her companion.
"Now for the explanation," she exclaimed, briskly. "I shall not let you off! Unpunctuality is a crime, and your punishment shall be to confess its cause."
Count Poltavo bent toward her with bright, smiling eyes.
"A very stupid and foolish business engagement," he replied, "which required my personal attendance, and unfortunately that of Mr. Farrington."
Lady Dinsmore threw up a protesting hand.
"Business has no charms to soothe my savage breast! Mr. Farrington," she lowered her voice confidentially, "can talk of nothing else. When he was staying with us he was for ever telegraphing, cabling to America, or decoding messages. There was no peace in the house, by day or by night. Finally I made a stand. 'Gregory,' I said, 'you shall not pervert my servants with your odious tips, and turn my home into a public stock-exchange. Take your bulls and bears over to the Savoy and play with them there, and leave Doris to me.' And he did!" she concluded triumphantly.
Count Poltavo looked about, as if noting for the first time Farrington's preoccupation. "Is he quite well?" he inquired, in an undertone.
Lady Dinsmore shrugged her shoulders.
"Frankly, I think he had a slight indisposition, and magnified it in order to escape small talk. He hates music. Doris has been quite distrait ever since. The child adores her uncle – you know, of course, that she is his niece – the daughter of my sister. Gregory was her father's brother – we are almost related."
Her companion glanced across to the subject of their remarks. The girl sat in the front of the box, slim and elegant, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. She was watching the brilliant scene with a certain air of detachment, as if thinking of other things. Her usual lightness and gay banter seemed for the moment to have deserted her, leaving a soft brooding wistfulness that was strangely appealing.
The Count looked at her.
"She is very beautiful," he murmured under his breath.
Something in his voice caught Lady Dinsmore's attention. She eyed him keenly.
The Count met her look frankly.
"Is – is she engaged to her young friend?" he asked quietly. "Believe me, it is not vulgar curiosity which prompts the question. I – I am – interested." His voice was as composed as ever.
Lady Dinsmore averted her gaze hurriedly and thought with lightning rapidity.
"I have not her confidence," she replied at length, in a low tone; "she is a wise young woman and keeps her own counsel." She appeared to hesitate. "She dislikes you," she said. "I am sorry to wound you, but it is no secret."
Count Poltavo nodded. "I know," he said, simply. "Will you be my good friend and tell me why?"
Lady Dinsmore smiled. "I will do better than that," she said kindly. "I will be your very good friend and give you a chance to ask her why. Frank," – she bent forward and tapped the young man upon the shoulder with her fan, – "will you come over here and tell me what your editor means?"
The Count resigned his seat courteously, and took the vacant place beside the girl. A silence fell between them, which presently the man broke.
"Miss Gray," he began, seriously, "your aunt kindly gave me this opportunity to ask you a question. Have I your permission also?"
The girl arched her eyebrows. Her lip curled ever so slightly.
"A question to which you and my Aunt Patricia could find no answer between you! It must be subtle indeed! How can I hope to succeed?"
He ignored her sarcasm. "Because it concerns yourself."
"Ah!" She drew herself up and regarded him with sparkling eyes. One small foot began to tap the floor ominously. Then she broke into a vexed little laugh.
"I am no match for you with the foils, Count. I admit it freely. I should have learned by this time that you never say what you mean, or mean what you say."
"Forgive me, Miss Gray, if I say that you mistake me utterly. I mean always what I say – most of all to you. But to say all that I mean – to put into speech all that one hopes or dreams – or dares," – his voice dropped to a whisper – "to turn oneself inside out like an empty pocket to the gaze of the multitude – that is – imbecile." He threw out his hands with an expressive gesture.
"But to speak concretely – I have unhappily offended you, Miss Gray. Something I have done, or left undone – or my unfortunate personality does not engage your interest. Is it not true?"
There was no mistaking his sincerity now.
But the girl still held aloof, her blue eyes cool and watchful. For the moment, her face, in its young hardness, bore a curious resemblance to her uncle's.
"Is that your question?" she demanded.
The Count bowed silently.
"Then I will tell you!" She spoke in a low voice surcharged with emotion. "I will give you candour for candour, and make an end of all this make-believe."
"That," he murmured, "is what I most desire."
Doris continued, heedless of the interruption. "It is true that I dislike you. I am glad to be able to tell you as much openly. And yet, perhaps, I should use another word. I dislike your secrecy – something dark and hidden within you – and I fear your influence over my uncle. You have known me less than a fortnight – Mr. Farrington, less than a week – yet you have made what I can only conceive to be impertinent proposals of marriage to me. To-day you were for three hours with my uncle. I can only guess what your business has been."
"You would probably guess wrong," he said coolly.
Farrington, at the other end of the box, shot a swift, suspicious glance across. Poltavo turned to the girl again.
"I want only to be a friend of yours in the day of your need," he said, in a low voice; "believe me, that day is not far distant."
"That is true?" She leaned toward him, a little troubled.
He bowed his head in assent.
"If I could believe you," she faltered. "I need a friend! Oh, if you could know how I have been torn by doubts – beset by fears – oppressions." Her voice quivered. "There is something wrong somewhere – I can't tell you everything – if you would help me – wait. May I test you with a question?"
"A thousand if you like."
"And you will answer – truthfully?" In her eagerness she was like a child.
He smiled. "If I answer at all, be sure it will be truthful."
"Tell me then, is Dr. Fall your friend?"
"He is my dearest enemy," he returned, promptly.
He had only the dimmest notion as to the identity of Dr. Fall, but it seemed that a lie was demanded – Poltavo could lie very easily.
"Or Mr. Gorth?" she asked, and he shook his head.
She drew a deep breath of relief. "And my uncle?" The question was a whisper. She appeared to hang upon his reply.
The Count hesitated. "I do not know," he admitted finally. "If he were not influenced by Dr. Fall, I believe he would be my friend." It was a bow at a venture. He was following the bent of her inclination.
For the first time that evening Doris looked at him with interest.
"May I ask how your uncle came to know Gorth?"
He asked the question with the assurance of one who knew all that was to be known save on this point.
She hesitated awhile.
"I don't quite know. The doctor we have always known. He lives in the country, and we only see him occasionally. He is – " She hesitated and then went on rapidly: "I think he has rather dreadful work. He is in charge of a lunatic."
Poltavo was interested.
"Please go on," he said.
The girl smiled. "I am afraid you are an awful gossip," she rallied, but became more serious. "I don't like him very much, but uncle says that is my prejudice. He is one of those quiet, sure men who say very little and make one feel rather foolish. Don't you know that feeling? It is as though one were dancing the tango in front of the Sphinx."
Poltavo showed his white teeth in a smile.
"I have yet to have that experience," he said.
She nodded.
"One of these days you will meet Dr. Fall and you will know how helpless one can feel in his presence."
A remarkable prophecy which was recalled by Poltavo at a moment when he was powerless to profit by the warning.
"Mr. Gorth?"
Again she hesitated and shrugged her shoulders.
"Well," she said frankly, "he is just a common man. He looks almost like a criminal to my mind. But apparently he has been a loyal servant to uncle for many years."
"Tell me," asked Poltavo, "on what terms is Dr. Fall with your uncle? On terms of equality?"
She nodded.
"Naturally," she said with a look of surprise, "he is a gentleman, and is, I believe, fairly well off."
"And Gorth?" asked Poltavo.
He was interested for many reasons as one who had to take the place of that silent figure which lay in the fog-shrouded house.
"I hardly know how to describe uncle's relations with Gorth," she answered, a little puzzled. "There was a time when they were on terms of perfect equality, but sometimes uncle would be very angry with him indeed. He was rather a horrid man really. Do you know a paper called Gossip's Corner?" she asked suddenly.
Poltavo had heard of the journal and had found a certain malicious joy in reading its scandalous paragraphs.
"Well," she said in answer to his nod, "that was Mr. Gorth's idea of literature. Uncle would never have the paper in his house, but whenever you saw Mr. Gorth – he invariably waited for uncle in the kitchen – you would be sure to find him chuckling over some of the horrid things which that paper published. Uncle used to get more angry about this than anything else, Mr. Gorth took a delight in all the unpleasant things which this wretched little paper printed. I have heard it said that he had something to do with its publication; but when I spoke to uncle about it, he was rather cross with me for thinking such a thing."
Poltavo was conscious that the eyes of Farrington were searching his face narrowly, and out of the corner of his eye he noted the obvious disapproval. He turned round carelessly.
"An admirable sight – a London theatre crowd."
"Very," said the millionaire, drily.
"Celebrities on every hand – Montague Fallock, for instance, is here."
Farrington nodded.
"And that wise-looking young man in the very end seat of the fourth row – he is in the shadow, but you may see him."
