"A rotten night, Joe," he said. "Miss White hasn't gone yet, has she?"
"No, sir," said the man obsequiously, "she's only just left the stage a few minutes. Shall I tell her you're here, sir?"
Pinto shook his head.
He was a good-looking man of thirty-five. There were some who would go further and describe him as handsome, though his peculiar style of good looks might not be to everybody's taste. The olive complexion, the black eyes, the well-curled moustache and the effeminate chin had their attractions, and Pinto Silva admitted modestly in his reminiscent moments that there were women who had raved about him.
"Miss White is in No. 6," said the doorkeeper. "Shall I send somebody along to tell her you're here?"
"You needn't trouble," said the other, "she won't be long now."
The girl, hurrying along the corridor, fastening her coat as she came, stopped dead at the sight of him and a look of annoyance came to her face. She was tall for a girl, perfectly proportioned and something more than pretty.
Pinto lifted his hat with a smile.
"I've just been in front, Miss White. An excellent performance!"