The Saint sighed.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the Delphian theater.”
There was a perceptible pause before she said, “Have you gone out of your mind?”
“No,” said the Saint. “But I was invited to a rehearsal, and I happened to remember that Iris Freeman was once Mrs Vincent Maxted.”
He took a taxi to the theater and turned on the radio. He found a local news broadcast, and had the ambiguous satisfaction of hearing his own name on a last-minute flash just before the commercial.
“Must be quite a guy, that Saint,” said the driver chattily.
“He’d better be,” Simon agreed.
There was no janitor at the stage door, and he found his way unchallenged to the stage. Voices grew louder as he approached it, and presently he stopped in the shadow of some stacked scenery and listened.
The rehearsal seemed to be justifying some of Stratford Keane’s gloomy prognostications. The voice of Macbeth, declaiming, did not even have the lush rotundity of Keane’s:
“Is this a dagger which I see before me,