Not to be balked of the dénouement of the little comedy in real life for which he had provided the audience, the American grabbed the hall porter.
“Say,” he said, “do you know that gentleman?”
“Yes, sir. That is Mr. Mark Bower.”
Spencer beamed on the man as though he had just discovered that Mr. Mark Bower was his dearest friend.
“Well, now, if that isn’t the queerest thing!” he said. “Is that Mark? He’s just gone round to the Wellington Theater, I guess. How far is it from here?”
“Not a hundred yards, sir.”
Off went Spencer, without his hat. He had intended to follow in a cab, but a sprint would be more effective over such a short distance. He crossed the Strand without heed to the traffic, turned to the right, and, to use his own phrase, “butted into a policeman” at the first corner.
“I’m on the hunt for the Wellington Theater,” he explained.
“You needn’t hunt much farther,” said the constable good humoredly. “There it is, a little way up on the left.”