'Miss Larose.' Nothing else. No address.
'But the other one!—the other one!' he said, beside himself.
'I never spoke to her at all,' said his companion, whose name was Fison. 'They came in here twenty minutes ago and asked to see me. The door-keeper told them the rehearsal was just over and they would find me on the stage. The lady I was talking to wished to know whether we had all the people we wanted for the ballroom scene. Some friend with whom she had been acting in the country had advised her to apply—'
'Acting where?' said Fenwick, still gripping him.
The stage-manager rubbed his nose in perplexity.
'I really can't remember. Leeds—Newcastle—Halifax—was it? It's altogether escaped my memory.'
'For God's sake, remember!' cried Fenwick.
The stage-manager shook his head.
'I really didn't take notice. I liked the young lady very well. We got on, as you may say, at once. I talked to her while you were discussing over there. But I had to tell her there was no room for her—and no more there is. Her sister—or her friend—whichever it was—was an uncommonly pretty girl. I noticed that as she went out—which reminds me—she asked me to tell her who you were.'
Fenwick gazed at the speaker in passionate despair.