Then, still curious and extremely interested, he walked briskly around to the stage entrance, nodded to the doorkeeper, and went in.
Gregory was not in sight, but the stage manager was there, directing the striking of the last set.
“I'm waiting for Gregory,” Bassett said. “Hasn't fainted, has he?”
“What d'you mean, fainted?” inquired the stage manager, with a touch of hostility.
“I was with him when he thought he recognized somebody. You know who. You can tell him I got his automobile number.”
The stage manager's hostility faded, and he fell into the trap. “You know about it, then?”
“I was with him when he saw him. Unfortunately I couldn't help him out.”
“It's just possible it's a chance resemblance. I'm darned if I know. Look at the facts! He's supposed to be dead. Ten years dead. His money's been split up a dozen ways from the ace. Then—I knew him, you know—I don't think even he would have the courage to come here and sit through a performance. Although,” he added reflectively, “Jud Clark had the nerve for anything.”
Bassett gave him a cigar and went out into the alley way that led to the street. Once there, he stood still and softly whistled. Jud Clark! If that was Judson Clark, he had the story of a lifetime.
For some time he walked the deserted streets of the city, thinking and puzzling over the possibility of Gregory's being right. Sometime after midnight he went back to the office and to the filing room. There, for two hours, he sat reading closely old files of the paper, going through them methodically and making occasional brief notes in a memorandum. Then, at two o'clock he put away the files, and sitting back, lighted a cigar.