He picked up a stray program as he left the place—he had had none before—and put it in his pocket to look over at home.
"At least, I'm not suffering from lack of interests or diversion," he said, "but, by Jingo, I've just thought of it! What about money!
"I've enough to hang out at that hotel about a week and that's all. I'll have to tell Dad I'm here, or get a job or rob a bank. And what can I do to turn an honest penny? And I can't go to work under an assumed name! Oh, hang it all, I've got to come to life! Much as I love Dad and much as I want to save him from all ridicule and disaster about that abominable book, I've simply got to live my own life!
"But I won't decide till my cash gets lower than it is now. I'll go a bit further in my investigations and then we'll see about it."
Comfortably seated in his room he drew out the program to look over.
To his unbounded amazement he learned from the title page that the author of the play and also the producer, or, at least, the president of the producing company was—Christopher Shelby!
"Kit! Good old top!" he cried aloud.
"Oh, I must see him," he thought, "I just must see him! So Kit wrote the thing—well, I suppose he and Blair did it together— I recognize Kit's hand more especially in the producing element—and then, old Gilbert, bless him, was killed, and Kit went ahead alone— I can't think Mac Thorpe did for Gil—oh, I must see somebody or I'll go crazy!"
And because he was afraid to trust himself to keep away from the telephone any longer, Peter Boots went to bed.
The night brought counsel.