“I am ready to start when you are,” I answered. “Good-night once more, Lord Langerdale.”
He shook my hand warmly, nodded to the Count, who returned the salute with a stiff bow, and left us. We descended into the street, and a very small, neat brougham, drawn by a pair of dark, handsome bays, drew up at the entrance. The coachman’s livery was perfectly plain, save that he wore a cockade in his hat, and there was neither coat-of-arms nor crest upon the panel of the door. We stepped inside, and the Count held a speaking-tube for a moment to his mouth while he consulted his watch. There was no footman.
“Frivolity Theatre,” he directed. And we drove off at a smart pace into the Strand.
We reached our destination in a few moments and had no difficulty in obtaining seats. It was all new to me, and I felt a little bewildered as I endeavoured to follow the performance. I soon had enough of that. The piece was a screaming farce, vulgar and stupid.
“I don’t think Mr. Marx is here,” I whispered to de Cartienne.
“I don’t think he is,” was the rejoinder. “I had a good look round for him when we came in. Have you had enough of this performance? If so, we’ll go. I think I know where we shall find Marx.”
“Then let us go at once,” I urged.
We passed out of the theatre into the street, The brougham was there waiting for us.
“Jump in!” said the Count, opening the door. “I’m going to tell the fellow where to drive to.”
I obeyed him, and waited for nearly a minute before he had given his directions and joined me. Then he took his seat by my side and we drove quickly off.