At ten o’clock Carolyn and her company were all asleep or breakfasting in their hotels. Carolyn, Valerie Gaynes, Liversidge, Mason and Hambledon stayed at the Middleton, the most expensive of these drear establishments. For the rest of the company, the splendour of their lodgings was in exact ratio to the amount of their salaries, from Courtney Broadhead at The Commercial down to Tommy Biggs, the least of the staff, at “Mrs. Harbottle, Good Beds.”

George Mason, the manager, had not gone to bed. He had shaved, bathed, and changed his clothes, and by ten o’clock, uneasy with chronic dyspepsia, sat in the office at The Royal talking to the “advance,” a representative of the Australian firm under whose auspices the company was on tour.

“It’s going to be big, Mr. Mason,” said the advance. “We’re booked out downstairs, and only fifty seats left in the circle. There’s a queue for early-door tickets. I’m very very pleased.”

“Good enough,” said Mason. “Now listen.”

They talked. The telephone rang incessantly. Box-office officials came in, the local manager of the theatre, three slightly self-conscious reporters, and finally Mr. Alfred Meyer, carrying a cushion. This he placed on the swivel chair, and then cautiously lowered himself on to it.

“Well, Alf,” said Mason. “ ’Morning, George,” said Mr. Meyer.

Mason introduced the Australian advance, who instantly seized Mr. Meyer’s hand in a grip of iron and shook it with enthusiasm.

“I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Meyer.”

“How do you do?” said Mr. Meyer. “Good news for us, I hope?”

The reporters made tentative hovering movements.

“These gentlemen are from the Press,” said Mason. “They’d like to have a little chat with you, Alf.”

Mr. Meyer rolled his eyes round and became professionally cordial.

“Oh, yes, yes,” he said, “certainly. Come over here, gentlemen, will you?”

The advance hurriedly placed three chairs in a semicircle close to Meyer, and joined Mason, who had withdrawn tactfully to the far end of the room.