“Mr. Lampman will address you now.”

A few discreet lights were brought up to compensate for Buckshaw’s antiquated electrical system.

From somewhere in the shadows behind them, a tiny middle-aged man made his appearance and, like a boy on a country road, strolled slowly and casually across the foyer as if he had all the time in the world. He was dressed, from the top down, in a rather battered olive-green fedora hat, a black roll-neck sweater, and black slacks.

In a different costume, Val Lampman might have passed for a leprechaun.

He turned and faced the others. I noticed that he didn’t ascend even one of the stairs.

“It’s nice to see so many of the old familiar faces—and a few new ones as well,” he said. “Among the latter is Tom Christie, our assistant director—”

He stopped to put his hand on the shoulder of a curly-haired man who had now come over to join him.

“—who will be seeing that everyone is zipped up and that none of you walk into walls.”

A small but polite laugh went up.

“As most of you know by now, we’re embarking under a bit of a handicap. Pat McNulty has suffered an unfortunate injury, and although I’m assured that he’s going to be all right, we’re just going to have to get on without his benevolent mother hen tactics, at least for the time being.

“Ben Latshaw will be in charge of technical crew until further notice, and I know you’ll extend him every courtesy.”

Heads swiveled, but I couldn’t see who they were looking at.

“I’d hoped to have a read-through of the first scene with Miss Wyvern and Mr. Duncan, but as he’s not arrived yet, we’ll substitute scene forty-two with the maid and the postman. Where are the maid and the postman? Ah! Jeannette and Clifford—good show. See Miss Trodd, and we’ll meet upstairs as soon as we’re finished here.”