The churchyard scene with its unassuming crosses, accentuating the regal sepulchre of the Capulets (and there for that), showed grimly.
“Wisht!” she exclaimed, as a lizard ran over her foot.
Frisking along the footlights, it disappeared down a dark trap hole.
Had Réné been setting more traps? Upon a mysterious mound by a jam-jar full of flowers was a hunk of cheese.
She stood a moment fascinated.
Then bracing herself, head level, hands on hips, she executed a few athletic figures to shake off sleep.
Suddenly there was a cry; a cry that was heard outside the theatre walls, blending half-harmoniously with the London streets.
XVII
THE rich trot of funeral horses died imperceptibly away.