Harold Lumsden himself was peering through a peephole in the curtain at that moment, idly surveying the nucleus of what he knew would prove to be an unusually brilliant first-night audience. For years he had enjoyed great prestige, and this was to be his first appearance following a successful invasion of London, which had added greatly to his laurels.
“This is going to be some night, Harold!” his manager remarked impressively, coming up from behind and putting his hand on the star’s shoulder. “Dressed early, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I felt restless,” was the reply. “Hanged if I know why. This sort of thing ought to be an old story to me by this time, if it’s ever going to be.”
As he turned about to face the portly manager, he noticed an envelope in the latter’s hand. Knowing the manager’s absent-mindedness, he inquired:
“That letter isn’t for me, is it?”
“Why, yes, it is,” was the reply. “I had forgotten it for a moment. It’s marked ‘Urgent,’ but I suppose it’s only from some friend of yours—or, more likely, some friend of a friend—who aspires to the deadhead class.”
“Probably,” Harold Lumsden agreed, as he glanced at the handwriting for a moment, and then ripped the envelope open. “We haven’t needed to ‘paper’ our houses for the last few seasons, have we, old man? What’s this! Great heavens!”
The distinguished actor clutched at one of the wings for support, and the letter fluttered to the ground. The manager stooped to pick it up, but with an oath the star forestalled him, seizing the letter hastily and thrusting it into his pocket.
“Bad news?” the manager asked anxiously.