He drew a large sum of money in notes and gold and dined well and expensively at a musty, heavily carpeted commercial hotel. When the porter had placed his bag in a cab and turned for his instructions he gaped in surprise on being told to drive to the Flat Iron Market. Even more surprised were the frequenters of that resort when the cab drew up by the pavement and a well-dressed, middle-aged gentleman with gold spectacles descended and pushed his way through the crowd jostling and chattering under the blare and din of the mechanical organs and the flicker and flare of the naphtha lamps to the back of Copas's Theater Royal, which he entered by the stage door. It was whispered that he was a detective, and he was followed by a buzzing train of men and women. Disappointed of the looked-for sensation, they soon dispersed and were swallowed up in the shifting crowd. Groping through the darkness, he came to the greenroom--Mr. Copas's word for it--and deposited his bag. On the stage, through a canvas curtain, he could hear the thudding of feet and the bellowing of a great voice broken every now and then with cheers at regular intervals and applause from the auditorium. In a corner on a basket sat Matilda. She was wearing a pasteboard crown and gazing at herself in a mirror. As he dropped his bag she looked up and grinned. "So you've come back? I didn't think you would." "Yes, I've come back. The school has broken up." She removed her crown. "Like to see the show? Uncle's got 'em tonight." "Got? What has he got?" "The audience." She led him to the front of the house, where they were compelled to stand, for all the benches were full, packed with sweating, zestful men and women who had paid for enjoyment and were receiving it in full measure.