“Do you know if she’s playing now, and if so, where?” Codlin had no idea; he had not seen her name for some time in any of the bills. She might be in the provinces, she might have gone for a tour abroad. He thought a moment, and then added: “The best thing you can do if you want to get hold of her is to go to her agent, ‘Mossy’ Samuelson, as we call him. I’ll scribble his address on my card; he knows me well. That will get you the _entrée_ at once, for he’s an awfully busy chap, and if he doesn’t know you, will keep you waiting for hours.” The next day found Sellars presenting his club friend’s card to a small, sharp-looking boy in the rather dingy front room of a house in a street off the Strand. A communicating door led to Mr. “Mossy” Samuelson’s private sanctum, where he received his clients. A lot of women, mostly young, but a few middle-aged, were waiting to see the great man. Sellars thought that if all these people had to go in before him he would have to wait for hours. He did not of course know the ways of busy theatrical agents, that they do not see half the people who are waiting for an audience, only come out and dismiss most of them with a brief “Nothing for you to-day.” “Tell him I won’t keep him a minute,” he whispered to the sharp-looking boy, slipping half a crown into his rather grubby but appreciative palm. Mr. Codlin’s card had a magical effect. In less than a minute the boy appeared in the opening of the doorway and beckoned him in. A gentleman with a pronounced Hebraic aspect sat in solemn state at a big table, wearing the shiniest tall hat that Sellars had ever seen on a human head. He doffed this resplendent article when he observed the young man remove his own. “Good-morning, sir; good-morning. Sorry I can’t give you more than a minute or two. I’ve got three contracts to draw before one o’clock, and there’s half the music-hall profession waiting in the other room to see me. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Codlin’s card, couldn’t have given you a second.” In view of Mr. Samuelson’s evident importance, Sellars adopted a most respectful tone. “Very kind of you, sir, very kind indeed. I will come to the point at once. You are the agent of Miss Alma Buckley, I am told.” “I am, sir; been her agent for the last twenty years. What can I do for you?” “I want to see the lady on some private and important business. You could not, of course, give me her address?” “We never give addresses of our clients; clean against the rules, sir.” The little, keen, beady eyes looked at him inquiringly. The young man belonged to White’s Club and looked what Mr. Samuelson would describe in his own words, “a toff.” What could such a person want with a middle-aged, undistinguished music-hall artist? “I quite appreciate that, Mr. Samuelson. Would you be good enough to forward a letter for me?”