Rutherford had developed of late a habit of patrolling the neighbourhood of Forty-Second Street at theatre-time.
Rutherford, intent on her, noticed none of these things.
The waiter, who had been doubtful about him, was won over, and went off to execute the order, reflecting that it was never safe to judge a man by his clothes, and that Rutherford was probably one of these eccentric young millionaires who didn't care how they dressed.
Peggy was for returning to Alcala by car, but Rutherford refused to countenance such an anti-climax.
From force of habit, Rutherford glanced at the letter-rack on the wall at the foot of the stairs.
Peggy's nightly visits began afresh after this, and the ghost on the table troubled Rutherford no more.
As the play progressed Rutherford was amazed at the completeness of the character he had built.
You're alive, my son,' said Rutherford, admiringly, as he read the sheets.
At last there came the day when the play was finished, when the last line was written, and the last possible alteration made; and later, the day when Rutherford, bearing the brown-paper-covered package under his arm, called at the Players' Club to keep an appointment with Winfield Knight.
Almost from the first Rutherford had a feeling that he had met the man before, that he knew him.
The chuckle from the actor and the sigh of relief from Rutherford were almost simultaneous.
It was only later that Rutherford learned craft and caution.
It might, as one critic pointed out, be more of a monologue act for Winfield Knight than a play, but that did not affect Rutherford.
He seized upon Rutherford and would not let him go.
Rutherford sat down, his chin resting in his hands.