They went out together, Justina breathless, and hurried to the stage door.
Maurice penetrated some dark passages, and stumbled up some break-neck stairs, in his anxiety to learn if his companion were really late. The band was grinding away at an overture. The second piece had not begun.
'Is it all right?' asked Maurice, just as the light figure that had sped on before him was disappearing behind a dusky door.
'Yes,' cried Justina, 'I don't go on till the second scene. I shall have just time to dress.'
So Mr. Clissold groped his way to the outer air, relieved in mind.
It was a still summer evening, and this part of the city had a quiet, forgotten air, as of a spot from which busy life had drifted away. The theatre did not create any circle of animation and bustle in these degenerate days, and seen from the outside might have been mistaken for a chapel. There were a few small boys hanging about near the stage door as Mr. Clissold emerged, and these, he perceived, looked at him with interest and spoke to one another about him. He was evidently known, even to these street boys, as the man who had been suspected of his friend's murder.
He walked round to the quiet little square in front of the theatre, lighted his pipe, and took a turn up and down the empty pavement, meditating what he should do with himself for the rest of the evening.
Last night he had slept placidly enough in the mediæval jail, worn out with saddest thoughts. To-night there was nothing for him to do but go back to the 'Waterfowl,' where the rooms would seem haunted—put his few belongings together, and get ready for going back to London. His holiday was over, and how sad the end!
He had been very fond of James Penwyn. Only now, when they two were parted for ever, did he know how strong that attachment had been.