during the time that he was at Palace Mansions, and counted it a freak of fate that Mr. Gianapolis’ affairs of the pocket had intruded upon his affairs of the heart.
It was all very confusing, and entirely beyond Soames’ mental capacity to unravel.
He treated himself to a third scotch whisky, and sallied out into the rain. A brilliantly lighted music hall upon the opposite side of the road attracted his attention. The novelty of freedom having worn off, he felt no disposition to spend the remainder of the evening in the street, for the rain was now falling heavily, but determined to sample the remainder of the program offered by the “first house,” and presently was reclining in a plush-covered, tip-up seat in the back row of the stalls.
The program was not of sufficient interest wholly to distract his mind, and during the performance of a very tragic comedian, Soames found his thoughts wandering far from the stage. His seat was at the extreme end of the back row, and, quite unintentionally, he began to listen to the conversation of two men, who, standing just inside the entrance door and immediately behind him to the right, were talking in subdued voices.
“There are thousands of Kings in London,” said one…
Soames slowly lowered his hands to the chair-arms on either side of him and clutched them tightly.
