"So," he said to himself, "my lady is an actress—or would it be a chorus girl? Well, we shall soon find that out."
He strolled up the narrow alley, and coming to a broad double door of wood, saw written above it in big red letters, "STAGE DOOR," and, on a bell below, the words "Carlton Theatre." The comparative quiet of the scene, the few people about, and the darkness of the passage beyond the door told him that a rehearsal was in progress and not an actual performance. When he read the bill of the play, affixed to a dirty board, he learned that on the following Wednesday evening, at eight-thirty precisely, Mr. Charles Izard would present Etta Romney in the new play "Haddon Hall," by Constant Hayter. Not much of a play-goer, though a recognized frequenter of those houses devoted to musical comedy, the Count asked himself if he had ever heard the name of Etta Romney before. He could not remember to have done so—but, while he stood there, the stage door-keeper came out to smoke a pipe in the alley, and to him the Count addressed himself with that disregard of diplomatic approach which is a habit of the dubious adventurer.
"The young lady who just went in—I think she is a friend of mine."
"Ah," said the stage door-keeper, without taking his pipe from his lips.
"If you could tell me her name, I would send in my card."
"No doubt you would," said the stage door-keeper.
Nonplussed, the Count stroked his mustache a little viciously and began to fumble in his trousers' pocket.
"No good," said the stage door-keeper, anticipating the offer, and then bridling up as he recognized the kind of man he had to do with, he exclaimed peremptorily:
"Come, it's time you went home to dinner, ain't it; you look hungry enough."
"I was going to give you five shillings," said the Count.