But even this was denied him.
"I'm a friend of Miss Hutton's," he said to the "Alhambra" manager early that day, "and I wish to obtain her address."
"I've no doubt of it," replied the man, in a sneering tone; "lots of her admirers have wanted it, and kept on wanting it for all me."
"But I am a friend of hers," persisted Winn, his ire rising, "and I wish to see her."
"Well, go hunt for her," came the insolent answer. "She's in the city; but her address is her private property, and you don't learn it from me." And he turned away.
And Winn did likewise, too angry for further parley.
And that night, impelled a little by penitence and more by despondency, he called on Ethel Sherman.
"How did you enjoy Scotch melodies last evening?" he said gently, not wishing to seem inquisitive; "I saw you in a box at the 'Alhambra.'"
"Enjoy hardly expresses it," she answered earnestly; "I was spellbound, enraptured, and moved to tears. It was silly, I know, but I couldn't help it. Did you see me throw my flowers at the girl?"
"I did," he replied, his heart throbbing; "and you were not alone in your enthusiasm. She seemed to carry the house by storm. It was her farewell appearance, I noticed by the papers this morning."