“The girl at the end—the right end—on the stage, I mean.”
“Oh—Marguerite Feronia. Isn’t she a wonder? I don’t see how any one can compare her with Jennie Jessop, who danced opposite her.”
“Do you know—Miss Feronia?” asked Stilson.
“Marguerite? Yes. I’ve seen her a few times in the cork-room. Ever been there?”
“No.” Stilson had neither time nor inclination for dissipation.
“Would you like to go? It’s an odd sort of place.”
They went downstairs, through the public bar and lounge and into a long passage. At the end Penrose knocked on a door with a small shutter in it. Up went the shutter and in its stead there was a fierce face—low forehead, stubby, close cropped hair, huge, sweeping moustache shading a bull-dog jaw. The eyes were wicked yet not unkindly.
“Hello, John. This is a friend of mine from the World—Mr. Stilson.”
“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Penrose.” The shutter replaced the face and the door opened. They were under the stage, in a room walled and ceilinged with champagne corks, and broken into many alcoves and compartments. They sat at a table in one of the alcoves and Penrose ordered a bottle of champagne. When the waiter brought it he invited “John” to have a glass. “John” took it standing—“Your health, gents—best regards”—a gulp, the glass was empty and the moustache had a deep, damp fringe.
“I have orders not to let nobody in till the end of the performance,” said “John.” “But you gents of the press is different.” He winked as if his remark were a witticism.