II
From Fleet Street, Anthony drove straight to the Regency, over whose great frontage flaring placards and violently winking electric signs announced that the great, the incomparable Vanda was gracing with her art this mecca of vaudeville. As he reached it the audience were streaming out from its great glass doors.
He anticipated difficulty, and approached the stage-door keeper with a five-pound note and broken English. He was, it seemed, Prince Nicolas Something-or-the-other-vitch. He was oh! so great a friend of the great, the incomparable Vanda—even a relation. He must, it was of an imperativeness, see her. Further, the good keeper of the door really must accept this so little piece of paper.
The good keeper did; then proceeded laboriously to explain that the Vanda was not in the theatre. Hadn’t been there at all that day. And there ’adn’t been half a row about it, neither! She had wired to say she couldn’t appear. Why? Gawd perhaps knew; certainly nobody else did. When would she reappear? The keeper of the door reely couldn’t say. P’r’aps to-morrer. P’r’aps never. Good night to you, sir.
Anthony went to his flat, surprised his man, and ordered a drink, a bath, fresh clothing, a drink, and supper.
At the meal, his hunger surprised him. Then he remembered that since the lightest of lunches he had eaten nothing. Having made up the deficiency, he lit a cigar, sat in a chair by the open window and read through, not once but many times, the typed report of the inquest.
Somewhere a clock struck two. Anthony put down the report, clasped his head with his hands, and plunged into thought. Presently he found his mind to be wandering, strictly against orders—wandering in a direction forbidden. He swore, got to his feet, and crossed to the writing-table. At this he employed himself with pen and paper for more than an hour.
At last he put down his pen and read through what he had written. The clock struck four. He finished his reading, said: “H’mm! Those blasted gaps!” and went to bed.