Jill looked down the street.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose I shall have to start trying to find something.”
“But …”
Jill drew him suddenly into the dark alley-way leading to the stage-door of the Gotham Theatre’s nearest neighbor: and, as she did so, a long, thin form, swathed in an overcoat and surmounted by an opera-hat, flashed past.
“I don’t think I could have gone through another meeting with Mr Pilkington,” said Jill. “It wasn’t his fault, and he was quite justified, but what he said about Uncle Chris rather hurt.”
Wally, who had ideas of his own similar to those of Mr Pilkington on the subject of Uncle Chris and had intended to express them, prudently kept them unspoken.
“I suppose,” he said, “there is no doubt … ?”
“There can’t be. Poor Uncle Chris! He is like Freddie. He means well!”
There was a pause. They left the alley and walked down the street.
“Where are you going now?” asked Wally.