“I say, old pal, are you goin’ to help a poor feller?”
The man was standing behind him, the leer upon his greasy face. Joyce had been blissfully unaware that he had dogged his steps from that street corner to the stage-door of the theatre, and from the stage-door hither. The sight of him was a stroke of cold terror.
“Go away. I ’ll give you in charge,” he stammered, losing his head for the moment.
Annie Stevens clutched his arm.
“Who is this beastly man?” she said.
“Only an old pal, miss,” said the man, edging towards the door. “We was in quod many months together, and now he won’t give me ’arf a crown to keep me from starving.”
“By God!” cried Joyce, making a sudden dash at him.
But the man was too quick; he had secured his retreat, and when Joyce reached the pavement—the house was at a corner of cross roads—he could not catch the fall of his footsteps. The man had vanished into the night, and pursuit was hopeless. It had all passed with the sudden unexpectedness of a dream. Joyce put his hand to his forehead and tried to think. He could scarcely realise exactly what had happened. He seemed to be enveloped with tiny tingling waves that drew his skin tight like a drum for his heart to beat against. He turned, and saw Annie Stevens standing by his side, in the light of the public-house, with anger on her face.
“What have you got to say for yourself?” she asked brusquely.
“Do you believe that man?” said Joyce, the words coming painfully.