In an instant he emerged, breathing hard, heard the jeers of the crowd directed at the moving carriage, and, his fingers clenching, rushed into the street and gazed after it. It turned into Long Acre, going toward Piccadilly. He plunged into the network of side streets opposite and hastened rapidly in the direction it had taken.
It was not far to the house on Piccadilly Terrace, and he outstripped the coach. From the shadow he saw it stop, saw the man it carried dismount—alone.
“Where is she?” he muttered. “He took her from the theater—damn him! Where has he left her?”
The same bitter smile with which he had faced the clamor outside the theater was on Gordon’s white face as he entered the house. In the hall he opened a single note of invitation, read it and laughed.
Rushton met him. “Mr. Dallas is in the library, your lordship.”
Gordon strode into the room. Dallas saw that though he was smiling oddly, his face was deeply lined, and his eyes were glittering like those of a man with a fever.
“George,” cried Dallas, “I was bound to see you! Why,—you are ill!”
“Not I, Dallas. I have been to Drury Lane to-night. All society was there, divorced and divorceable, intrigants and Babylonians of quality. Lady Holland, like a hippopotamus in the face, and William Lamb with the very manner of the ursine sloth!”
There was genuine anxiety in Dallas’ tone. “Come with me to Stratford for a few days,” he besought. “Come now—to-night!”