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Carisbrooke that she would be staying in London for some while longer and be available for consultation, she bade him a friendly goodbye and went out once more into the quiet and peaceful atmosphere of the tree-shaded square in which his office was situated.
    For some minutes she walked along slowly, reviewing the extraordinary way in which her life had changed since she had entered that office an hour or so ago.
    It was characteristic of Gregory Picton, she felt sure, that he should instruct her to wait until he decreed the time for a meeting between her and her mother. It was equally characteristic of Cecile that she determined to do nothing of the kind.
    In fact, having glanced at her watch, with an air of obstinate determination which would have given Mr. Picton food for thought, she quickened her steps until she came to Fleet Street once more. Here she hailed a taxi and drove straight to the theatre where she had been with Maurice Deeping on the previous evening.
    She was trembling as she entered the foyer, but whether with excitement or an obscure sense of guilt she was not sure. Here she briefly studied the list of the cast which hung near the box office.
    Mrs. Edenham—that was the name of the character in the play! And opposite it was the disconcertingly unfamiliar name—Laurie Cavendish. Her stage name, of course. But it seemed an incongruous name for one’s mother to have, even for professional purposes, somehow.
    Cecile approached the box office and, in as confident a tone as she could manage, asked for the telephone number of Miss Laurie Cavendish.
    “We don’t give the phone numbers of the cast,” replied the indifferent young man framed in the small opening. “You can write in.”
    “But this is urgent ! ” Suddenly, it seemed to Cecile that it was.
    “I’m sorry,” the young man said, without any sign of regret.
    “But I—I know her very well.” Strangely untrue, of course, and yet with a sort of moving rightness about it.
    “I’m sorry,” said the young man again. “Next, please.”
    And Cecile realized that someone was standing behind her, no doubt waiting impatiently to enquire about tickets.
    Slowly she moved away. And, as she did so, a door at the end of the foyer opened and a man came out. Her glance passed over him without interest in the first moment. Then sudden, unmistakable recollection came to her. Even without make-up he was easily recognizable. This was Lucas Manning who was walking towards her.
    Afterwards Cecile wondered how she found the courage and resolution to address him. Perhaps the sheer necessity of catching the movement or forever losing it prompted her. At any rate, she stepped boldly forward in his path and said, pleadingly, “Mr. Manning—” too late she remembered that Maurice Deeping had said he was Sir Lucas—“please could I speak to you?”
    “Yes?” He paused and gave her his famous smile.
    “I want to get in touch with someone in your cast—” she spoke quickly, breathlessly—“Miss Laurie Cavendish.”
    She was aware suddenly that the famous actor-manager’s glance travelled over her with increased attention and interest.
    “If you send in a note at the stage door, it will be given to her,” he said.
    “But that means quite a l o t of delay. I wouldn’t see her until tomorrow then.”
    “And is it so necessary to see her today?”
    “Yes. It is,” Cecile insisted, and waited hopefully.
    To her surprise, there was quite a pause before Sir Lucas replied. And then he neither denied her request nor granted it He asked, in a rather odd tone of voice:
    “Are you a relation of hers?”
    “Why, yes.” Cecile was slightly taken aback.
    “I thought you must be. You are so like her.”
    It was the second time this fact had been remarked upon, and it gave Cecile the extraordinary feeling that she wanted to cry.
    “Don’t think me inquisitive,” Sir Lucas went on, “but what relation are you?”
    Cecile swallowed, hesitated, and then said,