When he had finished the letter, he carefully read it, and made a few
corrections. Then he folded it up, put it in an envelope, and placed
it unsealed in his inside coat pocket. He arose with an expression of
resolution about his eyes that was quite new there.
Ascertaining by the clock in the thronged main corridor that the time
was ten minutes after seven, the old man rushed into the cafe, where he
devoured hastily a chicken croquette, and swallowed a cup of coffee and
a glass of whiskey before starting to the theatre. He was in his
dressing-room and in his shirt-sleeves, touching up his eyebrows, when
Bridges arrived. A cool greeting passed between the two.
"You sent the note?" asked the old man.
"What note?" gruffly queried Bridges, taking off his coat.
"To that girl."
"Most certainly."
A curious look, unobserved by Bridges, shot from Poor Yorick's eyes. It
seemed to say, "Wait, things may happen that you're not looking for."
At about the time when Bridges and Yorick were dressing for the
performance, a newspaper reporter, wishing to make a few notes of an
interview that had been accorded him by a politician staying in the
hotel at which the old man had written his long letter, went into the
writing-room and made use of the desk where the actor had sat earlier in
the evening.
Pages:
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230