When Poole had dealt with the first act he turned to Dr Rutherford who had sat throughout with his legs extended and his chin on his chest, directing from under his brows a glare of extreme malevolence at the entire cast.

‘Anything to add to that, John?’ Poole asked.

‘Apart from a passing observation that I regard the whole thing as a tour de force of understatement and with reservations that I keep to myself—’ Here Dr Rutherford looked fixedly at Parry Percival. ‘I am mum. I reserve my fire.’

‘Act Two, then,’ said Poole and began again.

Martyn became aware after a few minutes that Dr Rutherford, like Bennington, was staring at her. She was as horribly fascinated as birds are said to be by the unwinking gaze of a snake. Do what she could to look elsewhere about the stage, she must after a time steal a glance at him only to meet his speculative and bloodshot regard. This alarmed her profoundly. She was persuaded that a feeling of tension had been communicated to the others and that they, too, were aware of some kind of impending crisis. This feeling grew in intensity as Poole’s voice went steadily on with his notes. He had got about half-way through the second act when Dr Rutherford ejaculated, ‘Hi! Wait a bit!’ and began a frenzied search through his own notes which seemed to be in complete disorder. Finally he pounced on a sheet of paper, dragged out a pair of spectacles and, with a hand raised to enjoin silence, read it to himself with strange noises in his breathing. Having scattered the rest of his notes over his person and the floor he now folded this particular sheet and sat on it.

‘Proceed,’ he said. The cast stirred uneasily. Poole continued. He had come to the scene between himself and Miss Gainsford and beyond a minor adjustment of position said nothing about it. Miss Hamilton, who had arrived at the final stage of her street make-up, dusted her face with powder, nodded good-humouredly at Martyn and turned to face Poole. Martyn thankfully shut the dressing-case and made for the nearest exit.

At the same moment Poole reached the end of his notes for the second act and Dr Rutherford shouted: ‘Hold on! Stop that wench!’

Martyn, with a sensation of falling into chaos, turned in the doorway.

She saw nine faces lifted towards her own. They made a pattern against the smoke-thickened air. Her eyes travelled from one to the other and rested finally on Poole’s.

‘It’s all right,’ he said ‘Go home.’

‘No, you don’t,’ Dr Rutherford shouted excitedly.

‘Indeed she does,’ said Poole. ‘Run away home, Kate. Goodnight to you.’

Martyn heard the storm break as she fled down the passage.