The man took her measure in an instant, saving in one particular—she was prepared to give him a shilling and he did not guess it.
"Mr. Casey's on the stage," he said; "he won't be disturbed now."
"If I waited, do you think I might see him?"
"I couldn't tell you, I'm sure."
He resumed his perusal of a newspaper, and Mamie looked at him through the aperture helplessly. There was the usual knot of loafers about the step—a scene-hand or two in their shirt-sleeves; a girl in her pathetic best dress, also hoping for miracles; a member of the company, who had slipped out from rehearsal to smoke a cigarette.
Cerberus was shown where his estimate had been at fault. He said "Miss" now: "If you write your business on one of these forms, Miss, I'll send it in to Mr. Casey."
He gave her a stump of pencil, and a printed slip, specially designed to scare intruders. She wrote her name, and Mr. Casey's name, and could find no scope for euphemisms regarding the nature of the interview she sought. She added, "To obtain engagement as extra lady," and returned the paper with embarrassment; she was sufficiently unsophisticated in such matters to assume that her object had not been divined.
"'Ere, Bill!" One of the scene-hands turned. "Take it in to Mr. Casey for this lady."
The man addressed as Bill departed through a second door with a grunt and a bang, and she waited expectantly. The girl in her best frock sneered; she could not afford to dispense shillings, herself, and already her feet ached. The door swung back constantly. At intervals of a few seconds a stream of nondescripts issued from the unknown interior, and Mamie stood watching for the features of her messenger. It was nearly a quarter of an hour before he reappeared.
"Mr. Casey can't see you," he announced.