“At the same time,” he said, “I can’t for one moment pretend—­”

“Exactly; so that it’s all the nicer of you to volunteer to come along!” she said briskly.  “You’ll have to hurry, Duncan.  And ask Paul to come up for my trunk, will you?  We leave the house in half an hour!”

Mrs. Coppered advised her stepson to supply himself with magazines on the train.

“For I shall have to read,” she said, “and perhaps you won’t be able to sleep.”

And read she did, with hardly a look or a word for him.  She turned and re-turned the pages of a little paper-covered book, moving her lips and knitting her brows over it as she read.

Duncan, miserably apprehensive that they would meet some acquaintance and have to give an explanation of their mad journey, satisfied himself that there was no such immediate danger, and, assuming a forbidding expression, sat erect in his seat.  But he finally fell into an uneasy sleep, not rousing himself until the train drew into the Forty-second Street station late in the evening.  His stepmother had made a rough pillow of his overcoat and put it between his shoulder and the window-frame; but he did not comment upon it as he slipped it on and followed her through the roaring, chilly station to a taxicab.

“The Colonial Theatre, as fast as you can!” said she, as they jumped in.  She was obviously nervous, biting her lips and humming under her breath as she watched the brilliantly lighted streets they threaded so slowly.  Almost before it stopped she was out of the cab, at the entrance of a Broadway theatre.  Duncan, alert and suspicious, read the name “Colonial” in flaming letters, and learned from a larger sign that Miss Eleanor Forsythe and an all-star cast were appearing therein in a revival of Reade’s “Masks and Faces.”

In the foyer Mrs. Coppered asked authoritatively for the manager.  It was after ten o’clock, the curtain had risen on the last act, and a general opinion prevailed that Mr. Wyatt had gone home.  But Mrs. Coppered’s distinguished air, her magnificent furs, her beauty, all had their effect, and presently Duncan followed her into the hot, untidy little office where the manager was to be found.

He was a pleasant, weary-looking man, who wheeled about from his desk as they came in, and signed the page to place chairs.

“Mr. Wyatt,” said Mrs. Coppered, with her pleasantest smile, “can you give us five minutes?”

“I can give you as many as you like, madam,” said the manager, patiently, but with a most unpromising air.

“Only five!” she reassured him, as they sat down.  Then, with an absolutely businesslike air, she continued:  “Mr. Wyatt, you have Mr. and Mrs. Penrose in your company, I think, both very old friends of mine.  She’s playing Mabel Vane,—­Mary Archer is the name she uses,—­ and he’s Triplet.  Isn’t that so?”

The manager nodded, eying her curiously.

“Mr. Wyatt, you’ve heard of their trouble, of course?  The accident this morning to their little boy?”