"You represent Mrs. Whitaker?"
Mr. Ember shook his head. "I'm no lawyer, thank God! But I happen to know a good deal it would be to your advantage to know; so I've taken this liberty."
"Mrs. Whitaker didn't send you to me? Then how—? What the deuce—!"
"I happened to have a seat near your box at the theatre to-night," Mr. Ember explained coolly. "From—what I saw there, I inferred that you must be—yourself. Afterwards I got hold of Max, confirmed my suspicion, and extracted your address from him."
"I see," said Whitaker, slowly—not comprehending the main issue at all. "But I'm not known here by the name of Whitaker."
"So I discovered," said Ember, with his quiet, engaging smile. "If I hadn't remembered that you sometimes registered as Hugh Morten—as, for instance, at the Commercial House six years ago—"
"You were there!"
"A considerable time after the event—yes." The man nodded, his eyes glimmering.
Whitaker shot a quick glance round the room, and was relieved to find they were not within earshot of any of the other occupied tables.
"Who the devil are you?" he demanded bluntly.