Then his voice trailed away, and he stared at the other members of the tableau with the expression of a gaffed fish. Tod Kermein, with the camera, gulped audibly and offered a rather similar impersonation, concentrating most of it on Patricia’s lens-bearing companion, and reminding the Saint of a goldfish which had just discovered itself in a mirror.
“And then there were six,” Simon murmured. “Busiest bedroom scene I ever saw.”
“What the hell—”
Mr Joyson tried again, and again stopped on a note almost of panic.
Luella did her best.
“Honest to God, Matt,” she began. “I swear there’s nothing—”
Matthew Joyson may have lacked many sterling qualities, but presence of mind was not one of them. As a matter of fact, he had a professional pride in his ability to ad-lib, which had stood him in good stead during his days on the road, when at certain matinees an overindulgence on the night before had dulled his recollection of the script. He realized now that something drastic had gone wrong, that by some incredible coincidence his big scene had been blown up by a rival team who were actually playing it straight, and that the one safe course was to drop the curtain as fast as possible and consider the other angles later.
He turned to Patricia.
“Madam,” he said in his most magisterial style, “am I to understand that we are here on the same errand?”
“The brute!” Patricia choked. “The bru-hu-hute! And after all I’ve done for him. The best years of my life—”