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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.”

“Quite right, my boy!” chuckled Mr. Montague. “You’re quite right to keep it up, even among friends. It don’t do to risk anything, and the least said soonest mended.”

He went on his way, leaving Roland completely mystified.

Voices from his sitting-room, among which he recognized the high note of Miss Verepoint, reminded him of the ordeal before him. He entered with what he hoped was a careless ease of manner, but his heart was beating fast. Since the opening of rehearsals he had acquired a wholesome respect for Miss Verepoint’s tongue. She was sitting in his favorite chair. There were also present Bromham Rhodes and R. P. de Parys, who had made themselves completely at home with a couple of his cigars and whisky from the oldest bin.

“So here you are at last!” said Miss Verepoint, querulously. “The valet told us you were expected back this morning, so we waited. Where on earth have you been to, running away like this, without a word?”

“I only went—-“

“Well, it doesn’t matter where you went. The main point is, what are you going to do about it?”

“We thought we’d better come along and talk it over,” said R. P. de Parys.

“Talk what over?” said Roland: “the revue?”

“Oh, don’t try and be funny, for goodness’ sake!” snapped Miss Verepoint. “It doesn’t suit you. You haven’t the right shape of head. What do you suppose we want to talk over? The theater, of course.”

“What about the theater?”

Miss Verepoint looked searchingly at him. “Don’t you ever read the papers?”

“I haven’t seen a paper since I went away.”

“Well, better have it quick and not waste time breaking it gently,” said Miss Verepoint. “The theater’s been burned down–that’s what’s happened.”

“Burned down?”

“Burned down!” repeated Roland.

“That’s what I said, didn’t I? The suffragettes did it. They left copies of ‘Votes for Women’ about the place. The silly asses set fire to two other theaters as well, but they happened to be in main thoroughfares and the fire-brigade got them under control at once. I suppose they couldn’t find the Windsor. Anyhow, it’s burned to the ground and what we want to know is what are you going to do about it?”

Roland was much too busy blessing the good angels of Kingsway to reply at once. R. P. de Parys, sympathetic soul, placed a wrong construction on his silence.

“Poor old Roly!” he said. “It’s quite broken him up. The best thing we can do is all to go off and talk it over at the Savoy, over a bit of lunch.”

“Well,” said Miss Verepoint, “what are you going to do–rebuild the Windsor or try and get another theater?”