And if I’d told him about Bartholomew when he came home, we could have contacted him weeks ago, Polly thought guiltily. “How all occasions do inform against us.”

“Don’t worry,” Mike said. The train pulled into Leicester Square. “What time is it?” he asked as they got off.

“Five till two,” Polly said. “We’ll never make it.”

“Yes, we will,” Mike said. “This is our lucky day.” And surprisingly, when they reached the Phoenix, there were still children and parents in the lobby and a queue in front of the box office. Polly sprinted up the stairs to the usher, followed by a limping Mike.

“Tickets, please,” the usher said.

“We’re not here to see the performance,” Mike said. “We just need to talk to somebody in the audience.”

“I’m sorry, sir. You’ll have to wait till the interval to speak to them.”

“We can’t wait.”

“It’s terribly important we speak to her,” Polly pleaded. “It’s an emergency.”

“I could have someone take her a message,” the usher said, relenting. “Where is she sitting?”

“I don’t know,” Polly said. “Her name’s Eileen O’Reilly. She has red hair. She has a little boy with her—”

“Look,” Mike said, “we’re not trying to sneak into your lousy pantomime.”

The usher stiffened.

“All we want—”

“Are there still tickets available for this performance?” Polly cut in before Mike could do any more damage.

“I believe so,” the usher said coldly.

“Thank you,” Polly said. “Come along,” she ordered Mike, and ran back down the steps to the box office.

“We don’t have time for this,” Mike said.

“If we get thrown out of here, we won’t be able to speak to Eileen till the play’s over.” She leaned toward the ticket seller’s cage. “Have you any tickets left for this performance?”

“I’m afraid all I have is two seats in the orchestra at eight and six. Row F, seats nineteen and—”

“We’ll take them,” Mike said. He slapped down two half crowns and grabbed the tickets.

They hurried back up the stairs, handed the tickets to the still-vexed-looking usher, and let him lead them to their row. He pointed at their seats, which were in the middle of the row, handed them back their stubs, and left. The man in the aisle seat stood up so they could go by him.

“We need to find somebody first,” Mike said. “Can you see them, Polly? What color hat was she wearing?”

“Black,” Polly said, scanning the audience, but every adult in the place was wearing a black hat, too, and the theater was a sea of children, bouncing up and down in the seats, chattering, laughing, wriggling, standing on the plush seats to talk to someone behind them. And all the mothers and nannies and governesses had their heads turned, attempting to make them sit down. “We’ll never find her in this mob.”

“I know. Wait, there she is,” Mike said, pointing up at the balcony. “There, in the first row. Eileen!” He waved to her, but Eileen was speaking to Theodore, who was the only child sitting still in the entire theater, his feet stuck straight out in front of him, his hands sedately on the arms of his seat. “Eileen!”