"I'm obliged to you, old man!" exclaimed Starmidge. "It's a bright idea! Of course, somebody there'll know who the man was that called last night—know his name, of course. And in that case——"
"Aye, but don't you anticipate too much, my lad!" interrupted Easleby. "There's no doubt that Gandam traced your Gabriel Chestermarke to the stage-door of the Adalbert Theatre—and lost him there. But, you know, for anything you know, Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke, banker, of Scarnham, may have had legitimate and proper business at that theatre. For aught you know, Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke may be owner of that theatre—ground-landlord—part-proprietor—financier. He may have a mortgage on it. All sorts of reasons occur to me as to why Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke may have called. He might be a personal friend of the manager's, or the principal actor's—called to take 'em out to supper, d'ye see, on his arrival in town. So—whoever we see there, you want to go guardedly, eh?"
"I'll tell you what," said Starmidge, "I'll leave it to you. I'll go with you, of course, but you manage it."
"Right, my lad!" assented Easleby. "All I shall want'll be a copy of this morning's newspaper—to lead up from."
One of the London morning journals had been making a great feature of the Scarnham affair from the moment Parkinson, on Starmidge's inspiration, had supplied the Press with its details, and it had that day printed an exhaustive résumé of the entire history of the case, brought up to the discovery of Frederick Hollis's body. Easleby bought a copy of this issue as soon as he and Starmidge returned to town, and carefully blue-pencilled the cross-headed columns and the staring capitals above them. With the folded paper in his hand, and Starmidge at his heel, he repaired to the stage-door of the Adalbert Theatre at a quarter to eight, when the actors and actresses were beginning to pass in for their evening's work and thrust his head into the glass-fronted cage in which the stage door-keeper sat.
"A word with you, mister," whimpered Easleby. "A quiet word, you understand. Me and my friend here are from the Yard—New Scotland Yard, you know, and we've an inquiry to make. Our cards, d'ye see?—I shall ask you to take 'em inside in a minute. But first, a word with you. Do you remember a gentleman coming here last night, late, who nodded to you and walked straight in? Little, stiffly built gentleman, very pale face, holds himself well up—what?"
"I know him," answered the door-keeper, much impressed by the official cards which Easleby held before his nose. "Seen him here many a time, but I don't know his name. He's a friend of Mr. Castlemayne's, and he's the entry, d'ye see—walks in as he likes."
"Ah, just so—and who may Mr. Castlemayne be, now?" asked Easleby confidentially.
"Mr. Castlemayne?" repeated the door-keeper. "Why, he's the lessee, of course!—the boss!"
"Ah, the boss, is he?" said Easleby. "Much obliged to you, sir. Well, now, then, just take these two cards to Mr. Castlemayne, will you, and ask him if he'll be good enough to see their owners for a few minutes on very important private business?"