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122 called "Maxine." Framed and hung in a row above the dormer windows, so near the ceiling that they could be seen with difficulty, were portraits of Evelyn (pronounced Eevelyn) Gray, Fawn Rochelle and Ann Nightingale, soubrettes of the 'oo's, lovely ladies of the London stage. Once they had been objects of Henry Colman's silent and devoted admiration. Later, grown mature, they had married Lords or Earls. Subsequently and discreetly all had been divorced therefrom.

In this office, Howard Vee was chatting with Leon Shaw. The agent peered across the veil of his myopia. He waved his plump, bediamonded finger in Howard's face. "I understand your ideas exactly," he said. "Wit, charm, good music and youth. You can't miss. Your cast is already notable. Rosemary Rose is perfect for the lead."

"Thanks for the bouquet," Howard replied. "Is your dance team here?"

"Due any minute. I'll wait downstairs for you."

The yellow taxicab stopped at the Commodore marquee. Ken paid the driver and hurried into the stage door alley where an aging, hollow-voiced doorman halted him.

"Audition?"

"Yes. Is Miss Nasmuth here?"

"I don't reckon I know the lady," the doorman said.

"How come, Colonel?" Ken walked toward the stage door.

"You're just another one of Howard Vee's fresh youngsters, aren't you?"

"I'm fresh and young but I'm not Howard Vee's, Colonel."

"Why do you call me, Colonel?"