When he had got to the promenade, the men had disappeared, but a question directed to the head attendant revealed, as he had expected, the objective of the little party at the stage door.
The stage door was reached from the outside of the theatre and involved a journey over rubble and brick heaps. Presently he came to an open doorway, where sat a solitary half-caste smoking a pipe and reading an old Heraldo.
“Oh, hombre,” said Cartwright in Spanish, “have you seen my three friends come in here?”
“Yes, Señor,” nodded the man; “they have just entered.”
He indicated the direction, which lay through a dark and smelly passage.
Cartwright walked along this stuffy hallway, and, turning the corner, came upon an interesting group gathered about a closed door, against which one, and the least sober, of the party was hammering. Near by stood a small, stout man in soiled evening dress, grinning his approval, and it was clear that the visitors were at once known and welcome.
“Open the door, my dream of joy,” hiccupped the young man, hammering at the panel. “We have come to bring you homage and adoration—tell her to open the door, Jose,” he addressed the manager of Tangier’s theatre, and the small man minced forward and spoke in English.
“It is all right, my dear. Some friends of mine wish to see you.”
A voice inside, which Cartwright recognised, answered:
“I will not see them. Tell them to go away.”