* * * * *
On a night, six months after Symington’s disappearance, our five friends occupied a box at the Planet. The occasion was the 150th performance of the play, which was going as strong as ever. Anthony West had ceased to grumble at having to accept a fat cheque every Wednesday. Kitty did not know what to do with all her money, but, as Risk assured her, she had still time to think about it. Her marriage day was fixed for a month thence.
The curtain fell on the last act.
“Don’t wait for me,” said Risk. “I’m going down in a minute to have a word with Craven. I may look you up later, Hilda,” he added with a more than usual affectionate glance at his sister.
That afternoon West had called upon him, and made a confession concerning Hilda.
With leisurely haste the four lovers left the box. None of them had protested at the idea of not waiting for Risk.
He gazed after them, smiling whimsically, possibly a little sadly.
“And so,” he murmured, “the poor dog got none.”
Printed for ROBERT SCOTT, Publisher, PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON. E.C. by BUTLER & TANNER, FROME.