'I lost my temper,' he said, and Charles, assured that the storm was over, smiled happily, ran his hands through his hair and said,—
'Do you think Sir Henry would give her a part?'
Verschoyle flung back his head and shouted with laughter. Such innocence was a supreme joke, especially coming after the serious conversation in which he and Clara had aired their fears as to the result of their incursion into theatrical politics.
'She used to be quite pretty,' added Charles. 'What delightful rooms you have, my dear. They're not so warm as my ham and beef shop.'
'Listen to me, Charles,' said Verschoyle. 'This is serious. I don't care about you. Nothing could hurt you. I don't believe you know half the time what is going on under your nose, but it is vitally serious for Clara. This business must be stopped.... If we can't buy these people off then I'll give you two hundred to clear out.'
'Clear out?' faltered Charles, 'but—my Tempest is just coming on. I'm——'
Verschoyle took up the letter and noted the address, one of the musical comedy theatres.
'Have you heard from Mr Clott lately?'
'No. His name is Cumberland now, you know. He came into money. He said he would come back to me when I had my own theatre.'
'Theatre be damned. I wanted to know if he's still blackmailing you.'