The wind, storming up from the sea, beat against the frail little wooden
building till every rafter creaked and groaned. The canvas sides flapped
and strained madly at the imprisoning ropes. Those hanging lamps which
were not already extinguished swung in perilous arcs. In the auditorium
of the frail little temporary theatre, only one man lingered near the
entrance, and he, as we well knew, with sinister purpose. In the little
make-up room behind the stage, we three performers, shorn of our
mummer's disguise, presented perhaps the most melancholy spectacle of
all. The worst of it was that Leonard and I were all broken up with
trying to make the best of the situation for Rose's sake, yet prevented
by circumstances from altogether ignoring it.
"Seems to me we're in rather a tightish corner, Leonard," I ventured,
watching that grim figure in the doorway through a hole in the curtain.
"First turn to the left off Queer Street," Leonard admitted gloomily.
Rose said nothing. She was seated in the one chair which went with the
portable property, and her head had fallen forward upon her arms, which
were stretched upon the deal table. Her hat, a poor little woollen
tam-o'-shanter, was pushed back from her head. Her jacket was
unfastened. The rain beat down upon the tin roof.
"I'd sell my soul for a whisky and soda," Leonard, our erstwhile
humourist, declared wistfully.
"And I mine," I echoed, thinking of Rose, "for a good supper, a warm
fire and a comfortable bed."
"And I mine," Rose faltered, looking up and dabbing at her eyes with a
morsel of handkerchief, "for a cigarette."
There was a clap of thunder. The flap of canvas which led to the back of
the stage shook as though the whole place were coming down. We looked up
apprehensively and found that we were no longer alone. A clean-shaven
man of medium height, dressed in a long mackintosh and carrying a tweed
cap in his hand, had succeeded in effecting a difficult entrance. His
appearance, even at that time, puzzled us. His face was perfectly
smooth, he was inclined to be bald, his eyes were unusually bright, and
there was a noticeable curve at the corners of his lips which might have
meant either humour or malevolence. We had no idea what to make of him.
One thing was certain, however,--he was not the man an interview with
whom we were dreading.
"Mephistopheles himself could scarcely have made a more opportune
entrance," he remarked, as the crash of thunder subsided into a distant
mutter. "Permit me."
He crossed towards us with a courteous little bow and extended a gold
cigarette case, amply filled. Rose took one without hesitation and lit
it. We also helped ourselves. The newcomer replaced the case in his
pocket.
"I will take the liberty," he continued, "of introducing myself. My name
is Richard Thomson."
"A very excellent name," Leonard murmured.
"A more than excellent cigarette," I echoed.
"You are the gentleman who sat in the three-shilling seats," Rose
remarked, looking at him curiously.
Mr. Richard Thomson bowed.
"I was there last night and the night before," he acknowledged. "On each
occasion I found with regret that I was alone."
No one likes to be reminded of failure. I answered a little hastily.
"You have established your position, sir, as a patron of our ill-omened
enterprise. May I ask to what we are indebted for the honour of this
visit?"
"In the first place, to invite you all to supper," was the brisk reply.
"Secondly, to ask if I can be of any service in helping you to get rid
of that bearded rascal Drummond, whom I see hanging about at the
entrance. And in the third place--but I think," he added, after a queer
and oddly prolonged pause, "that we might leave that till afterwards."
I stared at him like a booby, for I was never a believer in miracles.
The quiver on Rose's lips was almost pathetic, for like all
sweet-natured women she was an optimist to the last degree. Leonard, I
could see, shared my incredulity. The thing didn't seem possible, for
although he was obviously a man of means, and although his manner was
convincing and there was a smile upon his lips, Mr. Richard Thomson did
not look in the least like a philanthropist.
"Come, come," the latter continued, "mine is a serious offer. Are you
afraid that I shall need payment for my help and hospitality? What more
could you have to give than the souls you proffered so freely as I came
in?"
"You can have mine," Leonard assured him hastily.
"Mine also is at your service," I told him. "The only trouble seems to
be to reduce it to a negotiable medium."
"We will make that a subject of discussion later on," our new friend
declared. "Mr. Lister," he added, turning to me, "may I take it for
granted that you are the business head of this enterprise? How do you
stand?"