An hour and a half later, not without misgivings, he presented himself at the stage-door of the Theatre Royal, Brighton. Mr. Cardomay, he was informed, was not within—he was probably lunching at his lodging. A request for the address of the lodging was sternly refused. It is an unwritten law that stage-doors never give addresses, however inconvenient the withholding of them may prove. He would do well, the doorkeeper advised, to call again that evening after the performance.
The prospect of spending several hours on the esplanade somewhat depressed Mr. Lennard, but he was rescued from such an unpleasant necessity by the opportune arrival of Freddie Manning, who thrust a long arm through the little window of the doorkeeper’s box and seized a handful of miscellaneous correspondence.
Realising he was in the presence of a man of importance, Mr. Theodore Lennard coughed discreetly.
“Yes?” said Manning, shuffling the letters from one hand to another.
“I—Good morning—afternoon—my name is—or rather, I was hoping to see Mr. Cardomay.”
“What about?”
Mr. Lennard stuttered, and after a period of incoherence produced Eliphalet’s note and handed it to the stage-manager, who read it through and frowned.
“I see,” he said. “Well, the Guv’nor’s busy at the moment. He’s—er—working on a play we shall probably be producing.” (This was pure fiction, or, as Manning would have said, a business stroke.) “If you come round to 15 St. James’s Place at 4.30, I’ll try to get you a hearing. Morning.” And tilting his hat well over his right eye, Manning hurried off in the direction of his master’s abode. He found Eliphalet at lunch, and started abruptly with:
“What’s this business about Theodore Lennard, Guv’nor? You’re never seriously thinking of doing that play of his—are you?”
Eliphalet consumed a mouthful of Bartlett Pear anointed with Bird’s Custard before replying: