He passed into the dressing-room passage. Helena Hamilton’s door was half-open and the lights were on. He tapped, looked in and was greeted by the smell of greasepaint, powder, wet-white and flowers. The gas fire groaned comfortably. Martyn, who was spreading out towels, turned and found herself confronted by his deceptively boyish face.

“Early at work?” he fluted.

Martyn wished him good evening.

“Helena not down yet?”

“Not yet.”

He hung about the dressing-room, fingering photographs and eyeing Martyn.

“I hear you come from Down Under,” he said. “I nearly accepted an engagement to go out there last year, but I didn’t really like the people so I turned it down, Adam played it in the year dot, I believe. Well, more years ago than he would care to remember, I dare say. Twenty, if we’re going to let our back-hair down. Before you were born, I dare say.”

“Yes,” Martyn agreed. “Just before.”

Her answer appeared to give him extraordinary satisfaction. “Just before?” he repeated. “Really?” and Martyn thought: “I mustn’t let myself be worried by this.”

He seemed to hover on the edge of some further observation and pottered about the dressing-room examining the great mass of flowers. “I’ll swear,” he said crossly, “those aren’t the roses I chose at Florian’s. Honestly, that female’s an absolute menace.”

Martyn, seeing how miserable he looked, felt sorry for him. He muttered: “I do so abominate first nights,” and she rejoined: “They are pretty ghastly, aren’t they?” Because he seemed unable to take himself off, sho added with an air of finality: “Anyway, may I wish you luck for this one?”

“Sweet of you,” he said. “I’ll need it. I’m the stooge of this piece. Well, thanks, anyway.”

He drifted into the passage, halted outside the open door of Poole’s dressing-room and greeted Bob Cringle. “Governor not down yet?”

“We’re on our way, Mr. Percival.” Parry inclined his head and strolled into the room. He stood close to Bob, leaning his back against the dressing-shelf, his legs elegantly crossed.

“Our little stranger,” he murmured, “seems to be new-brooming away next door.”

“That’s right, sir,” said Bob. “Settled in very nice.”

“Strong resemblance,” Parry said invitingly.

“To the Guv’nor, sir?” Bob rejoined cheerfully. “That’s right. Quite a coincidence.”

“A coincidence!” Parry echoed. “Well, not precisely, Bob. I understand there’s a distant relationship. It was mentioned for the first time last night. Which accounts for the set-up, one supposes. Tell me, Bob, have you ever before heard of a dresser doubling as understudy?”

“Worked out very convenient, hasn’t it, sir?”

“Oh, very,” said Parry discontentedly. “Look, Bob. You were with the Governor on his New Zealand tour in ’thirty, weren’t you?”

Bob said woodenly: “That’s correct sir. ’E was just a boy in them days. Might I trouble you to move, Mr. Percival? I got my table to lay out.”

“Oh, sorry. I’m in the way. As usual. Quite! Quite!” He waved his hand and walked jauntily into the passage.

“Good luck for to-night, sir,” said Bob and shut the door after him.

In the room opposite to Poole’s and next to the Greenroom, Parry could hear Bennington’s dresser moving about whistling softly through his teeth. There is a superstition in the theatre that it’s unlucky to whistle in a dressing-room and Parry knew that the man wouldn’t do it if Ben had arrived. He didn’t much like the sound of it himself, and moved on to J.G. Darcey’s room. He tapped, was answered, and went in. J.G. was already embarked on his make-up.

“Bob,” said Parry, “refuses to be drawn.”

“Good evening, dear boy. About what?”

“Oh, you know. The New Zealand tour and so on.”

“Quite right,” said J.G. firmly, and added: “He was the merest stripling.”

“Well — eighteen,” Parry began and then broke off.

“I know, I know. I couldn’t care less, actually.” He dropped into the only other chair in the room and buried his face in his hands. “Oh, dear,” he said, “I’m so bored with it all. By-blow or not, what does it matter!”

“It only matters,” said J.G., laying down a stick of No. 5, “in so far as it’s driving Gay Gainsford pretty close to a nervous breakdown, and to that I do most strongly object.”

“Really?” Parry raised his head and stared at him. “How altruistic of you, J.G. Well, I mean, I’m sorry for her, poor child. Naturally. And one trembles for the performance, of course.”

“The performance would be all right if people left her alone. Ben, in particular.”

“Yes,” said Parry with great satisfaction. “The situation appears to be getting under the skin of the great character actor. There is that.”

“I’m told,” said J.G., “there was a midnight audition. Jacko professes ecstasy.”

“My dear J.G., there have been two more-or-less public auditions. The object, no doubt, being to make everything look as clean as a whistle. The second affair was this morning.”

“Did you see her?”

“I happened to look in.”

“What’s she like?”

Parry lit a cigarette. “As you have seen,” he said, “she’s fantastically like him. Which is really the point at issue. But fantastically like.”

“Can she give a show?”

“Oh, yes,” said Parry. He leaned forward and hugged his knees boyishly. “Oh, yes indeed. Indeed she can, my dear J.G. You’d be surprised.”

J.G. made a non-committal sound and went on with his make-up.

“This morning,” Parry continued, “the Doctor was there. And Ben. Ben, quite obviously devoured with chagrin. I confess I couldn’t help rather gloating. As I remarked, it’s getting under his skin. Together, no doubt, with vast potations of brandy and soda.”

“I hope to God he’s all right to-night.”

“It appears Gay was in the back of the house, poor thing, while it was going on.”

“She didn’t tell me that,” J.G. said anxiously and, catching Parry’s sharpened glance, he added: “I didn’t really hear anything about it.”

“It was a repetition of last night. Really, one feels quite dizzy. Gay rushed weeping to Adam and again implored him to let her throw in the part. The Doctor, of course, was all for it. Adam was charming, but Uncle Ben produced another temperament. He and the Doctor left simultaneously in a silence more ominous, I assure you, than last night’s dog-fight. Ben’s not down yet.”

“Not yet,” J.G. said and repeated: “I hope to God he’s all right.”

For a moment the two men were united in a common anxiety. J.G. said: “Christ, I wish I didn’t get nervous on first nights.”

“You, at least, have something to be nervous about. Whereas I half kill myself over the dimmest bit in the West End. When I first saw the part I nearly screamed the place down. I said to Adam if it wasn’t that he and Helena had always been very sweet to me—”

J.G. paid this routine plaint the compliment of looking gloomily acquiescent, but he barely listened to it.

“—and anyway,” Parry was saying, “what chance has any of us as long as this fantastic set-up continues? In Poole-Hamilton pieces the second leads go automatically to the star’s husband. I suppose Adam thinks it’s the least he can do. Actually, I know I’m too young for the part but—”

“I wouldn’t say you were,” J.G. said, absently. Parry shot an indignant glance at him but he was pressing powder into the sides of his nose.

“If he tries any of his up-stage fun-and-games on me to-night,” Parry said, furiously hissing his sibilants, “I’ll just simply bitch up his big exit for him. I could, you know. It’d be no trouble at all.”

“I wouldn’t, dear boy,” J.G. said good-naturedly. “It never does one any good, you know. One can’t afford these little luxuries, however tempting. Well, that’s taken the polish off the knocker on the old front door.” He took his nose delicately between his thumb and forefinger. “The play stinks,” he said thoughtfully. “In my considered opinion, it stinks.”