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. Every nerve in his body seemed to be strung
up to the ultimate pitch of tensity. He was listening, now, as a man
arraigned might listen for the pronouncement of a judgment.
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