Poole picked up his hat and had taken a step or two towards the door when it opened and Ryland Fratten came back into the room. His face was still white but his eyes were calm.
“I’ve come to apologize,” he said. “I had no right to say that to you—I didn’t really mean it to you personally—of course you’re only doing your duty. Will you please forgive me?”
When Poole left the club a minute or two later, most of the satisfaction had died out of him. Instead, he had a curious sensation of shame at ever having felt satisfaction.
CHAPTER IX.
Silence
Thinking over his interview with Ryland Fratten, Poole felt rather uncertain as to what deduction to draw from it as to his character. Undoubtedly he was a much more intelligent—and consequently a potentially more dangerous—man than he had expected to find. On the other hand, without any practical justification, Poole realized that he rather liked what he had seen of him. Obviously, he must not build on such slender material and he cast about in his mind for the best means of studying Fratten’s character more closely. His sister, Inez, was out of the question; Mangane was possible, but Poole did not quite like the idea of pumping him. Finally it occurred to him that his own past history might provide a key to the problem.
In his undergraduate days, and to a lesser extent as a young barrister, he had not been above a little mild stage-door flirtation, during which he had made the acquaintance of various stage-door keepers, and especially that of Mr. Gabb of the “Inanity.” It was probable that Mr. Gabb knew the life-stories of more lights of the musical-comedy stage, together with their attendant moths, than any man in London. It was more than probable that he would know Ryland Fratten, and quite likely the history of his entanglement. Anyhow it was worth trying.
Returning quickly to his lodgings, Poole invested himself in the suit of immaculate evening clothes, the light black overcoat, and “stouted” top-hat, which were the carefully preserved relics of his less sombre past. There had always seemed a possibility of their coming in useful, and now Poole was glad of his foresight in keeping them by him and in good order. After standing himself a good, though light, dinner and a half-bottle of Cliquot at the Savoy Grill, with the object of imbibing the necessary “atmosphere,” Poole strolled round to the stage-door of the “Inanity” a little before nine. He knew that the interval would not take place before a quarter past at the earliest, so that he had plenty of time for a heart-to-heart with Mr. Gabb.
The result more than fulfilled his expectations. Gabb knew Ryland Fratten well, and all about his various affairs of the heart. He liked him, but he clearly felt a certain contempt for a man who, no longer a callow boy, wasted his life in fluttering about these tinsel attractions. Fratten’s latest flame was Miss Julie Vermont; she had a small speaking part in the piece now on. The affair had lasted about six months—longer than usual—and more serious than usual, though there had been a hitch in it lately.
At this moment, the swing-door leading into the theatre was pushed open and a girl in the exaggerated dress of a parlour-maid so popular on the lighter stage, stood for a moment in the doorway. She was extremely pretty, in a rather hard way, with closely-shingled auburn hair; Poole noticed a diamond and platinum ring on the third finger of the well-manicured hand that held open the door.
“Oh, Gabb,” she said, “if Mr. Gossington comes round tell him I can’t come out tonight, will you?”