I went downstairs and through the folding-doors into the wings. The O.P. corner was packed—standing room only—and the overflow reached nearly to the doors. The Black Hole of Calcutta was roomy compared with the wings on the night of a new song. Everybody who had the least excuse for being out of his or her dressing-room at that moment was peering through odd chinks in the scenery. Chorus-girls, show-girls, chorus-men, principals, children, scene-shifters, and other theatrical fauna waited in a solid mass for the arrival of the music-cue. The atmosphere behind the scenes has always had the effect of making me feel as if my boots were number fourteens and my hands, if anything, larger. Directly I have passed the swing-doors I shuffle like one oppressed with a guilty conscience. Outside I may have been composed, even jaunty. Inside I am hangdog. Beads of perspiration form on my brow. My collar tightens. My boots begin to squeak. I smile vacuously. I shuffled, smiling vacuously and clutching the type-script of _The Girl who Waited_, to the O.P. corner. I caught the eye of a tall lady in salmon-pink, and said “Good evening” huskily—my voice is always husky behind the scenes: elsewhere it is like some beautiful bell. A piercing whisper of “Sh-h-h-!” came from somewhere close at hand. This sort of thing does not help bright and sparkling conversation. I sh-h-hed, and passed on. At the back of the O.P. corner Timothy Prince, the comedian, was filling in the time before the next entrance by waltzing with one of the stage-carpenters. He suspended the operation to greet me. “Hullo, dear heart,” he said, “how goes it?” “Seen Briggs anywhere?” I asked. “Round on the prompt side, I think. He was here a second ago, but he dashed off.” At this moment the music-cue was given, and a considerable section of the multitude passed on to the stage. Locomotion being rendered easier, I hurried round to the prompt side. But when I arrived there were no signs of the missing man. “Seen Mr. Briggs anywhere?” I asked. “Here a moment ago,” said one of the carpenters. “He went out after Miss Lewin’s song began. I think he’s gone round the other side.” I dashed round to the O.P. corner again. He had just left. Taking up the trail, I went to his dressing-room once more. “You’re just too late, sir,” said Richard; “he was here a moment ago.” I decided to wait. “I wonder if he’ll be back soon.” “He’s probably downstairs. His call is in another two minutes.” I went downstairs, and waited on the prompt side. Sir Boyle Roche’s bird was sedentary compared with this elusive man. Presently he appeared. “Hullo, dear old boy,” he said. “Welcome to Elsmore. Come and see me before you go, will you? I’ve got an idea for a song.” “I say,” I said, as he flitted past, “can I——” “Tell me later on.” And he sprang on to the stage.