“What’ll happen to the Firm?” asked Ackroyd of no one in particular. They all stirred uneasily. Gascoigne paused in his dissertation on counterweights and swung round.

“The Firm?” he said. “The Firm will go on.”

“Do you mean Incorporated Playhouses?” asked Gordon Palmer eagerly.

“No,” snapped Ackroyd rudely, “he means Wirth’s Circus.”

“We always call Incorporated Playhouses ‘the Firm,’” explained Susan good-naturedly.

“The great firm of Inky-P.,” rumbled old Vernon.

“It was founded and built up by Mr. Meyer, wasn’t it?” asked Alleyn. “He was actually the only begetter?”

“He and George Mason,” said Gascoigne. ‘They made it together. George was a damn’ good actor in his day—character, you know—never played straight parts. The governor met him somewhere and they doubled up. Yes, they started forty years ago as Mason & Meyer’s Dramas, Ltd. A lot of omies the others were then, doing umpty-shows in the smalls.”

“That leaves me gaping,” said Alleyn apologetically. “What is an ‘omie,’ Miss Max, and how does one recognise an umpty-show?”

“Ted means they were bad actors doing worse shows in one-eyed towns up and down the provinces,” said Susan.

“Yes,” continued Gascoigne, “and today it’s the biggest theatre combine in Europe. Wonderful achievement.”

“It’ll be ‘George Mason’ only now,” said Liversidge suddenly.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Yes,” said little Ackroyd. He looked under his lashes at Gascoigne. “George will be a very wealthy man.”

At once Alleyn sensed a feeling of panic, of protest. Susan Max, who obviously disliked Ackroyd, planted her fat little hands on her knees and squared her shoulders.

“George Mason,” she said loudly, “would rather be back advancing The Worst Woman in London than have this happen.”

“Certainly.” Gascoigne backed her up emphatically. “I’ve stage-managed for the Firm for twenty-five years and it’s been a happy little family for every day of it. Every day of it. Big as they are, they’ve gone on taking a personal interest. They run their own shows. Of course, this is just a holiday—but look at the way they’ve kept with the crowd. Mr. Meyer was down in the office every morning and, make no mistake, he came down to work. He was honest, and by God, you can’t say that for many of ’em. He and George were the whitest men in management.”

“Ah!” said Susan, ruffling her plumage, and looking with approval at Gascoigne.

“Well,” rumbled old Vernon, ‘I’ve no quarrel with Inky-P., and I hope to God George keeps nice with him.”

“All right, all right,” protested Ackroyd, “I’m not saying George isn’t the curly-headed boy, am I, even if he hasn’t always been quite quite?”

“What d’you mean by that?” demanded Vernon.

“I seem to remember hearing something about a company left stranded in America in the good old days,” said Ackroyd. “Just one of those stories, you know, just one of those stories.”

“Then why repeat it?” snapped Vernon.