She shook her head.
“The man left no name at all. I tried to get the doorkeeper to tell me about him, but he’s such a surly old fellow, and he’s so used to that sort of thing, that he pretended he didn’t remember anything.”
“It seems odd,” he remarked thoughtfully, “that any one should have found you out. You were so seldom with Morrison. I dare say,” he added, “it was just some one to whom your brother owes some small sum of money.”
“Very likely,” she answered. “But I was going to tell you. He came again to-night while the performance was on, and sent a note round. I have brought it for you to see.”
The note—it was really little more than a message—was written on the back of a programme and enclosed in an envelope evidently borrowed from the box-office. It read as follows:
DEAR MISS LENEVEU,
I believe that Mr. Arthur Morrison is a connection of yours, and I am venturing to introduce myself to you as a friend of his. Could you spare me half-an-hour of your company after the performance of this evening? If you could honor me so much, you might perhaps allow me to give you some supper.
Sincerely,
PHILIP E. MILES.
Laverick felt an absurd pang of jealousy as he handed back the programme.
“I should say,” he declared, “that this was simply some young man who was trying to scrape an acquaintance with you because he was or had been a friend of Morrison’s.”
“In that case,” answered Zoe, “he is very soon forgotten.”