"Fellow was mad," said the theatrical manager.
"Tout-a-fait daft," agreed the Russian danseuse.
"It would have been safer," Tranter remarked, "if he had been given in charge."
There was something very like contempt in Mrs. Astley-Rolfe's glance.
"Do you know," she said quietly, "that that young man is a millionaire who lives on a pound a week, and spends the remaining nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds a week on saving lives and souls in places in London that people like us try to avoid even hearing about? If it is madness to devote your life and money to lifting some of the world's shadows—then he is very mad."
"Mosth creditable," said the Hebrew financier.
She turned her back on them, and stood apart.
Monsieur Dupont laid a hand on Tranter's arm.
"My friend," he said—and there was the faintest tremor in his voice, "I ask you again—into what manner of house have you brought me?"
"I am beginning to wish that I had not brought you," Tranter returned. "I don't like the atmosphere."