Alleyn looked at Carolyn Dacres. She had shut her eyes as soon as Valerie Gaynes had gone. She now opened one of them. It was a large, carefully made-up eye, and it was fixed on Alleyn.

“Good night, Carol,” said Hambledon. “’Night, Alf. Hope you get some sleep. Not much of the night left for it. Don’t worry too much about your adventure.”

“Sleep!” ejaculated Mr. Meyer. “Worry! We get to Middleton in an hour. Scarcely worth trying. I can’t lie down with any hope of comfort and you’d worry if someone tried to kick you off a train on the top of a mountain.”

“I expect I should. Coming, Alleyn?”

“Yes. Good night, Miss Dacres.”

“Good night,” said Carolyn in her deepest voice.

“So long,” said Mr. Meyer bitterly. “Sorry you’ve been troubled.”

Hambledon had already gone out into the little corridor, and Alleyn was in the doorway, when Carolyn stopped him.

“Mr. Alleyn!”

He turned back. There she was, still looking at him out of one eye, like some attractive, drowsy, but intelligent bird.

“Why didn’t Valerie want you to see the leather writing-folder?” asked Carolyn.

“I don’t know,” said Alleyn. “Do you?”

“I can make a damn’ good guess,” said Carolyn.

CHAPTER THREE

Off-Stage

THE DACRES COMPANY arrived at Middleton in time for breakfast. By ten o’clock the stage staff had taken possession of the Theatre Royal. To an actor on tour all theatres are very much alike. They may vary in size, in temperature, and in degree of comfort, but once the gas-jets are lit in the dressing-rooms, the grease-paints laid out in rows on the shelves, and the clothes hung up in sheets on the walls, all theatres are simply “theatre.” The playhouse is the focus-point of the company. As soon as an actor has “found a home,” and, if possible, enjoyed a rest, he goes down to the theatre and looks to his tools of trade. The stage-manager is there with his staff, cursing or praising the mechanical facilities behind the curtain. The familiar flats are trundled in, the working lights are on, the prompter’s table stands down by the footlights, and the sheeted stalls wait expectantly in the dark auditorium.

Soon the drone of the run-through-for-words begins. Mechanics peer from the flies and move, rubber-footed, about the stage. The theatre is alive, self-contained, and warm with preparation.

The Royal, at Middleton, was a largish playhouse. It seated a thousand, had a full stage and a conservative but adequate system of lighting and of overhead galleries, grid, and ropes. Ted Gascoigne, who was used to the West End, sniffed a little at the old-fashioned lighting. They had brought a special switchboard and the electrician morosely instructed employees of the local power-board in its mysteries.