Here, for the space of a week, Roland lay in hiding, while his
quivering nerves gradually recovered tone. He returned to London
happier, but a little apprehensive. Beyond a brief telegram of
farewell, he had not communicated with Miss Verepoint for seven days,
and experience had made him aware that she was a lady who demanded an
adequate amount of attention.
That his nervous system was not wholly restored to health was borne in
upon him as he walked along Piccadilly on his way to his flat; for,
when somebody suddenly slapped him hard between the shoulder-blades, he
uttered a stifled yell and leaped in the air.
Turning to face his assailant, he found himself meeting the genial gaze
of Mr. Montague, his predecessor in the ownership of the Windsor
Theater.
Mr. Montague was effusively friendly, and, for some mysterious reason,
congratulatory.
"You've done it, have you? You pulled it off, did you? And in the first
month--by George! And I took you for the plain, ordinary mug of
commerce! My boy, you're as deep as they make 'em. Who'd have thought
it, to look at you? It was the greatest idea any one ever had and
staring me in the face all the time and I never saw it! But I don't
grudge it to you--you deserve it my boy! You're a nut!"
"I really don't know what you mean.
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