“Never mind about my name. Smith, Brown, Jones, Robinson—anything you like.”
It was the agitated little manager who interfered.
“Sir,” he said, “you must not persuade this lady to leave the theatre. I have her under heavy penalties. I can bring her before the judge——”
“Now just forget that!” said Cartwright, “there is no judge in Tangier. She is a British subject, and the most you can do is to take her before the British Consul.”
“When she returns to Spain——” said the little man growing apoplectic.
“She will not return to Spain. She will go to Gibraltar if she goes anywhere,” said Cartwright, “and from Gibraltar she will be on the sea until she reaches a British port.”
“I will go to the Spanish Consul,” screamed the little manager, clawing the air. “I will not be robbed. You shall not interfere with my business, you——”
Much of this, thought Cartwright, was intended for the glowering young Spaniard who stood in the background. He went outside, closed the door and stood with his back toward it. On a whispered instruction from his employer’s son, whose hands were now flickering fire as he gesticulated in his excitement, Jose the manager disappeared, and returned a few minutes later with two stalwart stage hands.
“Will you leave this theatre at once and quietly?” demanded the foaming manager.
“I will not leave the theatre until I am ready,” said Cartwright, “and if I leave otherwise, I shall certainly not leave quietly.”