He saw the small man stare, nod, stand watching, and finally disappear, and Gregory resume his former position and attitude against the side wall.  Throughout the last act Gregory did not once look at the stage.  He continued his steady, unwavering study of the man in the sixth row seat next the aisle, and Bassett continued his study of the little man.

His long training made him quick to scent a story.  He was not sure, of course, but the situation appeared to him at least suggestive.  With the end of the play he wandered out with the crowd, edging his way close to the man and girl who had focused Gregory’s attention, and following them into the street.  He saw only a tall man with a certain quiet distinction of bearing, and a young and pretty girl, still flushed and excited, who went up the street a short distance and got into a small and shabby car.  Bassett noted, carefully, the license number of the car.

Then, still curious and extremely interested, he walked briskly around to the stage entrance, nodded to the doorkeeper, and went in.

Gregory was not in sight, but the stage manager was there, directing the striking of the last set.

“I’m waiting for Gregory,” Bassett said.  “Hasn’t fainted, has he?”

“What d’you mean, fainted?” inquired the stage manager, with a touch of hostility.

“I was with him when he thought he recognized somebody.  You know who.  You can tell him I got his automobile number.”

The stage manager’s hostility faded, and he fell into the trap.  “You know about it, then?”

“I was with him when he saw him.  Unfortunately I couldn’t help him out.”

“It’s just possible it’s a chance resemblance.  I’m darned if I know.  Look at the facts!  He’s supposed to be dead.  Ten years dead.  His money’s been split up a dozen ways from the ace.  Then —­I knew him, you know—­I don’t think even he would have the courage to come here and sit through a performance.  Although,” he added reflectively, “Jud Clark had the nerve for anything.”

Bassett gave him a cigar and went out into the alley way that led to the street.  Once there, he stood still and softly whistled.  Jud Clark!  If that was Judson Clark, he had the story of a lifetime.

For some time he walked the deserted streets of the city, thinking and puzzling over the possibility of Gregory’s being right.  Sometime after midnight he went back to the office and to the filing room.  There, for two hours, he sat reading closely old files of the paper, going through them methodically and making occasional brief notes in a memorandum.  Then, at two o’clock he put away the files, and sitting back, lighted a cigar.

It was all there; the enormous Clark fortune inherited by a boy who had gone mad about this same Beverly Carlysle; her marriage to her leading man, Howard Lucas; the subsequent killing of Lucas by Clark at his Wyoming ranch, and Clark’s escape into the mountains.  The sensational details of Clark’s infatuation, the drama of a crime and Clark’s subsequent escape, and the later certainty of his death in a mountain storm had filled the newspapers of the time for weeks.  Judson Clark had been famous, notorious, infamous and dead, all in less than two years.  A shameful and somehow a pitiful story.