He glowed with the actor's excited delight in an audience's enthusiastic reception of a new play. His glow sat rather oddly upon him, for he was made up as a decrepit old man, with bald wig, and heavy, blue patches beneath his eyes.
“No, I'm not in front,” said John.
“I see now,” smiled Herold, glancing at his friend's loose tweed suit. No clothes morning or evening ever fitted Risca. Herold called him “The Tailors' Terror.”
“I want to talk to you, Wallie,” said he.
“Have a drink? No? I sha' n't want anything, Perkins,” said he to the waiting dresser. “Call me when I 'm on in the second act. I don't change,” he explained.
“I know,” said John. “That 's why I 've come now.”
“What's the matter?” Herold asked, sitting in the chair before the dressing-table, bright with mirrors and electric lights and sticks of grease paint and silver-topped pots and other paraphernalia.
“Nothing particular. Only hell, just as usual. I saw that child to-day.”
Herold lit a cigarette.
“Have you ever speculated on what becomes of the victims in cases of this kind?” asked John.