On the paper were inscribed the words, “Macneillie’s Company, September 20-27, Theatre Royal. Rilchester.” Sir Matthew promptly detached a key from his ring and handed it to Smither.
“Just see my portmanteau through the Custom House,” he said, “I must catch the next train at King’s Cross, and will only take my bag with me.”
He drove off, but took the precaution of calling at the house in Queen Anne’s Gate that he might see whether any clue as to Evereld’s movements was to be had from Geraghty or Bridget. Their entire ignorance was however so transparent, and Bridget’s inquiries after her young mistress were so natural that he went off to King’s Cross more certain than ever that Evereld had avoided London and had gone straight to her lover. He dined in the train, arrived at Rilchester soon after ten o’clock that evening, took up his quarters at the Station Hotel, and sent a messenger to the stage door of the theatre to inquire as to Ralph Denmead’s address, being careful to avoid giving his name. When however he had obtained what he wanted and after some trouble had discovered the quiet street to which he had been directed, it was only to find that Ralph was still at the theatre.
“He’ll not be back for at least another half hour,” said the landlady. “Can I give him any message?”
“I had better come in and wait,” said Sir Matthew.
The landlady hesitated a moment, but being impressed as most people were by Sir Matthew’s manner and bearing, she admitted him and showed him into a fairly comfortable room where the supper-table was laid for two people.
“I have caught them,” said Sir Matthew to himself with an inward chuckle of satisfaction. “The little fool with her grand talk of the Lord Chancellor’s protection! She has ruined her case now. We shall have a scene, that can’t be helped. All’s well that ends well.”
Picking up a newspaper he installed himself comfortably in an armchair, and awaited Ralph’s return. Presently steps were heard outside, the street door was opened, and two people entered the passage, he put down his paper and listened. The voice speaking was certainly Ralph’s.
“It’s the worst house we have had this week, there weren’t a dozen people in the Stalls. Ah! I see there’s a note for you here.”
There followed sounds as of the opening of an envelope and then the door handle turned, and Sir Matthew looked up expectantly. Instead however of his runaway ward, there entered a middle-aged man intently reading an open letter; for a moment Sir Matthew failed to recognise the tired and rather despondent face, then it flashed upon him that this must be Hugh Macneillie. He moved somewhat uneasily, and the actor recalled to the present, lifted his eyes from the letter and looked at him in mute astonishment.