"Take it round to the stage entrance," said the man, carelessly.
"Yes, sir, if you please, sir," said Hamish; but he did not understand; and he stood.
The man looked at him; called for some one: a young lad came, and to him was given the letter.
"You may wait here, then," said he to Hamish; "but I think rehearsal is over, and Miss White has most likely gone home."
The man went into the box-office again; Hamish was left alone there, in the great empty vestibule. The Piccadilly Theatre had seldom seen within its walls a more picturesque figure than this old Highlandman, who stood there with his sailor's cap in his hand, and with a keen excitement in the proud and fine face. There was a watchfulness in the gray eyes like the watchfulness of an eagle. If he twisted his cap rather nervously, and if his heart beat quick, it was not from fear.
Now, when the letter was brought to Miss White, she was standing in one of the wings, laughing and chatting with the stage manager. The laugh went from her face. She grew quite pale.
"Oh, Mr. Cartwright," said she, "do you think I could go down to Erith and be back before six in the evening?"
"Oh yes, why not?" said he carelessly.
But she scarcely heard him. She was still staring at that sheet of paper, with its piteous cry of the sick man. Only to see her once more—to shake hands in token of forgiveness—to say good-by for the last time: what woman with the heart of a woman could resist this despairing prayer?
"Where is the man who brought this letter?" said she.