Before going to the theatre young Courtney Broadhead called in at the Middleton and asked for Mr. Gordon Palmer. He was sent up to Mr. Palmer’s rooms where he found that young man still in bed and rather white about the gills. His cousin and mentor, Geoffrey Weston, sat in an arm-chair by the window, and Mr. Francis Liversidge lolled across the end of the bed smoking a cigarette. He, too, had dropped in to see Gordon on his way to rehearsal, it seemed.

The cub, as Hambledon had called Gordon Palmer, was seventeen years old, dreadfully sophisticated, and entirely ignorant of everything outside the sphere of his sophistication. He had none of the awkwardness of youth and very little of its vitality, being restless rather than energetic, acquisitive rather than ambitious. He was good-looking in a raffish, tarnished sort of fashion. It was entirely in keeping with his character that he should have attached himself to the Dacres Comedy Company and, more particularly, to Carolyn Dacres herself. That Carolyn paid not the smallest attention to him made little difference. With Liversidge and Valerie he was a great success.

“Hullo, Court, my boy,” said Gordon. “Treat me gently. I’m a wreck this morning. Met some ghastly people on that train last night. What a night! We played poker till—when was it, Geoffrey?”

“Until far too late,” said Weston calmly. “You were a young fool.”

“He thinks he has to talk like that to me,” explained Gordon. “He does it rather well, really. What’s your news, Court?”

“I’ve come to pay my poker debts,” said Courtney. He drew out his wallet and took some notes from it. “Yours is here, too, Frankie.” He laughed unhappily. “Take it while you can.”

“That’s all fine and handy,” said Gordon carelessly. “I’d forgotten all about it.”

Mr. Liversidge poked his head in at the open office door. He did not come on until the second act, and had grown tired of hanging round the wings while Gascoigne thrashed out a scene between Valerie Gaynes, Ackroyd, and Hambledon. Mr. Meyer was alone in the office.

“Good morning, sir,” said Liversidge.

“’Morning, Mr. Liversidge,” said Meyer, swinging round in his chair and staring owlishly at his first juvenile. “Want to see me?”

“I’ve just heard of your experience on the train last night,” began Liversidge, “and looked in to ask how you were. It’s an outrageous business. I mean to say—!”

“Quite,” said Meyer shortly. “Thanks very much.” Liversidge airily advanced a little farther into the room.

“And poor Val, losing all her money. Quite a chapter of calamities.”

“It was,” said Mr. Meyer.

“Quite a decent pub, the Middleton, isn’t it, sir?”

“Quite,” said Mr. Meyer again.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

“You seem to be in funds,” remarked Mr. Meyer suddenly.