The steps halted.

“Look here! I say! Look, for God’s sake come up. I've fallen through the stage. I’ll drown. Why don’t you answer, whoever you are?”

The footsteps started again. A door opened nearby. Pass-door in the Prompt-side box, he thought. Steps up. Now: crossing the stage. Now.

“Who are you?” Peregrine said. “Look out. Look out for the hole. Look out for my hands. I’ve got gloves on. Don’t tread on my hands. Help me out of this. But look out. And say something.”

He flung his head back and stared into the shaft of light. Hands covered his hands and then closed about his wrists. At the same time heavy shoulders and a head wearing a hat came as a black silhouette between him and the light. He stared into a face he could not distinguish.

“It doesn’t need much,” he chattered, “if you could just give me a heave I can do it.”

The head was withdrawn. The hands changed their grip. At last the man spoke.

“Very well,” said a voice. “Now.”

He gave his last frog leap, was heaved up, was sprawled across the edge and had crawled back on the stage to the feet of the man. He saw beautiful shoes, sharp trouser ends and the edge of a fine overcoat. He was shivering from head to foot.

“Thank you,” he said. “I couldn’t be more grateful. My God, how I stink.”

He got to his feet.

The man was, he thought, about sixty years old. Peregrine could see his face now. It was extremely pale. He wore a bowler hat and was impeccably dressed.

“You are Mr. Peregrine Jay, I think,” said the man. His voice was toneless, educated and negative.

“Yes—I—I?”

“The people at the estate agents told me. You should have a bath and change. My car is outside.”

“I can’t get into anyone’s car in this state. I’m very sorry, sir,” Peregrine said. His teeth were going like castanets. “You’re awfully kind but—”

“Wait a moment. Or no. Come to the front of the theatre.”