"A matinée!" he repeated. "What on—" Then suddenly light seemed to dawn on him. "Why, of course, that girl—Molly Monk—I had forgotten her." He paused. "Do you think she can be of any help?"
Tony walked to the door. "She might lend us a sheet of note-paper," he said. "Anyhow I mean to ask her."
If there is one profession in this world more likely than the rest to induce a certain slight cynicism with regard to human motives, it is probably that of being stage door-keeper at the Gaiety Theatre. When therefore a quarter of an hour later, Tony presented his card at the open pigeon-hole with a request that he might see Miss Monk immediately on a matter of urgent importance, the uniformed gentleman inside contented himself with a weary smile.
"I'll send it up, sir," he remarked, "but between ourselves it ain't no good. The Guv'nor don't allow visitors in the dressin' rooms—not while the show's on."
Tony, who had been fingering a sovereign, laid it down beside the card.
"What a pity!" he replied thoughtfully.
At the sight of the gold piece the janitor's world hardened face lit up with an expression that was almost beautiful.
"I'll take it up meself, sir," he observed hastily, climbing down from his stool. "Of course if it's a matter o' urgent importance—" He emerged from his rabbit hutch, card in hand, and pushing open a swing-door disappeared from view up a winding flight of stairs.
After a decent interval he returned with the air of one who has triumphed over great odds.
"S'orl right," he remarked in a confidential whisper. "She's orf now, sir. You foller me, sir."