Bassett ran over the situation in his mind.

First then, grant that Clark was still living and had been in the
theater that night. It became necessary to grant other things.
To grant, for instance, that Clark was capable of sitting, with a
girl beside him, through a performance by the woman for whom he had
wrecked his life, of a play he had once known from the opening line
to the tag. To grant that he could laugh and applaud, and at the
drop of the curtain go calmly away, with such memories behind him
as must be his. To grant, too, that he had survived miraculously
his sensational disappearance, found a new identity and a new place
for himself; even, witness the girl, possible new ties.

At half past two Bassett closed his memorandum book, stuffed it
into his pocket, and started for home. As he passed the Ardmore
Hotel he looked up at its windows. Gregory would have told her,
probably. He wondered, half amused, whether the stage manager had
told him of his inquiries, and whether in that case they might not
fear him more than Clark himself. After all, they had nothing to
fear from Clark, if this were Clark.

No. What they might see and dread, knowing he had had a hint of a
possible situation, was the revival of the old story she had tried
so hard to live down. She was ambitious, and a new and rigid
morality was sweeping the country. What once might have been an
asset stood now to be a bitter liability.

He slowed down, absorbed in deep thought. It was a queer story.
It might be even more queer than it seemed. Gregory had been