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 stowed away for our next production. Miss de Montmorenci had her "Miserere," Mr. Sam Travers his broken glass.

"Now," said Maxwell, "let's see how that bit goes, after Travers' scene—the bit between Scherazade and Zobeide, I mean."

"Open the door! For God's sake, open the door!"

Maxwell and I started to our feet. We had "sported our oak," as we did not want to be disturbed, and the voice (a woman's) was accompanied by a violent knocking, as if the applicant were beating at the door with her open palm.

We ran to the door, and as soon as we had opened it a couple of women rushed violently past us into our sitting-room.

"Shut the door—don't stop to ask any questions—shut the door, I say!"

We closed it in mute astonishment. One of the women, the younger, had fallen on the hearthrug in a swoon; the elder was leaning against the mantelpiece,