“So,” said Claude to himself, “White has been watching Raleigh Mansions, and watching me too. ’Pon my honor, I shouldn’t wonder if he suspected me of the murder! I’m glad I saw him just now. For the next couple of hours I wish to be free from his interference.”
Waiting a few moments to make sure that White had not detailed an aide-de-camp to continue the surveillance, he buttoned his overcoat to the chin, tilted his hat forward, and strolled round to the stage door of the Jollity Theatre.
CHAPTER VI
MISS MARIE LE MARCHANT
The uncertain rays of a weak lamp, struggling through panes dulled by dirt and black letters, cast a fitful light about the precincts of the stage-door.
Elderly women and broken-down men, slovenly and unkempt, kept furtive guard over the exit, waiting for the particular “super” to come forth who would propose the expected adjournment to a favorite public-house. Some smart broughams, a four-wheeler, and a few hansoms, formed a close line along the pavement, which was soon crowded with the hundred odd hangers-on of a theatre—scene-shifters, gasmen, limelight men, members of the orchestra, dressers, and attendants—mingling with the small stream of artistes constantly pouring out into the cold night after a casual inquiry for letters at the office of the doorkeeper.
This being a fashionable place of amusement there were not wanting several representatives of the gilded youth, some obviously ginger-bread or “unleavened” imitations, others callow specimens of the genuine article.
Bruce paid little heed to them as they impudently peered beneath each broad-leafed and high-feathered hat to discover the charmer honored by their chivalrous attentions.