“He was.” Hastings spoke with conviction. “I’ve known that man for fifteen years and I’ve never seen him all hot and bothered like that before. He’s usually calmest when he’s got most to do.”
Margaret patted his cheek. “But, you silly baby, he wasn’t like that because of the work he was doing. It was something much, much more important than that—or I’m a Dutchman!”
Hastings was alarmed. “Not that! Anything but that! What was it, then?”
“A woman, of course. The woman! Heaven, am I tied to an idiot?”
“Just you wait, wench, until I’ve seen Mr. Pellet!” said Hastings.
2
From Fleet Street, Anthony drove straight to the Regency, over whose great frontage flaring placards and violently winking electric signs announced that the great, the incomparable Vanda was gracing with her art this mecca of vaudeville. As he reached it the audience were streaming out from its great glass doors.
He anticipated difficulty, and approached the stage-door keeper with a five-pound note and broken English. He was, it seemed, Prince Nicolas Something-or-the-other-vitch. He was oh! so great a friend of the great, the incomparable Vanda—even a relation. He must, it was of an imperativeness, see her. Further, the good keeper of the door really must accept this so little piece of paper.
The good keeper did; then proceeded laboriously to explain that the Vanda was not in the theatre. Hadn’t been there at all that day. And there ’adn’t been half a row about it, neither! She had wired to say she couldn’t appear. Why? Gawd perhaps knew; certainly nobody else did. When would she reappear? The keeper of the door reely couldn’t say. P’r’aps to-morrer. P’r’aps never. Good-night to you, sir.
Anthony went to his flat, surprised his man, and ordered a drink, a bath, fresh clothing, a drink, and supper.