“It’s dark.”
When Mr. Mole followed her he found himself standing on the top of another flight of steps leading down into impenetrable gloom. He struck a light and peered into an auditorium of rough benches, the last few rows of which were raised above the rest. Matilda looked up at him, and he was struck by the beauty of the line of her cheek from the brow down into the neck. She smiled and her teeth flashed white. Then the match went out.
He lit another, and they moved toward the stage, through the curtains of which came a smell of onions and cheese, rather offensive on such a hot night. For the first time Beenham began to feel a qualm as to the adventure. The second match went out, and he felt Matilda place her hand on his arm, and she led him toward the stage, told him to duck his head, and they passed through into a narrow space, lit by a light through another curtain, and filled, so far as he could see, with scenery and properties.
“Have you been here before?” he said.
“When I was a little girl. I think it’s this way.”
He stumbled and brought a great pole and a mass of dusty canvas crashing down. At once there was the battering of feet on boards, the din of voices male and female, and above them all a huge booming bass roaring:
“In Hell’s name, what’s that?”
Matilda giggled.
A curtain was torn aside, and the light filled the place where they were. Against it they could see silhouetted the shape of a diminutive man craning forward and peering. He had a great stick in his hand, and he bellowed: