Then for a
time I neither saw nor thought of him.
One night, in the last of January,--the coldest of that savage winter,--I
happened again to be in the corridor leading to the stage door, having come
from within the theatre in advance of my friend the comedian, with whom
I was to have supper at the Actors' Athletic Club. The actress's cab was
waiting. The dark little portion of the world back there was deserted.
Along the corridor, through which the sound of chorus girls' laughter
came, strolled the comedian, his cigar already lighted and behind it his
cheerful, hearty, smooth-shaven visage appearing ruddy from the recent
washing off of "make-up."
"Hello!" he began, thrusting his hand into his overcoat pockets. "By
the way, while I think of it, I just passed Miss Moran coming from the
dressing-room, and suddenly that name came back to me, the name of her
husband. It was a peculiar name,--Ernest Ruddle."
Ernest Ruddle! the name on the manuscript! The man of the restaurant and
the gallery, the tears, the waiting at the stage door, were explained
now. Ere we reached the stage door, the actress herself appeared in the
corridor, on the arm of her maid.
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