And sitting down beside her, he remained silent, tapping himself on the chest and sides, and feeling in overcoat pockets. Then he called loudly.
Mr. Russell, the stage-manager, came down the stage at a run. The rehearsal stopped and there was dead silence. Mr. Russell leaned forward over the footlights, his face all lit up and a hand shading his eyes, as he peered into the dark auditorium and spoke anxiously.
“Was that you calling me, Mr. Leahurst?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Leahurst. “Much ablige if you’ll give me box o’ matches. Somehow seem to have forgot mine.” And he told the people on the stage to go on. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean t’interrupt you. Very sorry, I’m sure”; and the rehearsal was resumed. “Ta, Mr. Russell.”
He lit his cigarette, and turning a shoulder to the stage, talked to Emmie; while Mildred and Alwyn, spellbound, watched them from the corner by the pass-door.
“We shall lose our money over this,” he said.
“Oh, I hope not, Mr. Leahurst.”
“I wonder what made a lady like you take up such a game as this. Ever done it before?”
“No.”
“No, so I thought. I was suprise when Beckett made me known to you. You follow what I mean? Nothing of the theatre about you. Just lending him a helping hand? Well, you’re rich, I s’pose—so it won’t hurt you either way.”