There was a strange _clientèle_ always gathered round Mr. Trapman's door so long as the great agent was visible, viz. from ten till five; old men in seedy camlet cloaks with red noses and bleared eyes--"heavy fathers" these--and cruel misers and villanous stewards and hard-swearing admirals and libertine peers; dark sunken-eyed gray men, with cheeks so blue from constant shaving that they look as if they had been stained by woad; virtuous and vicious lovers; heroes of romance and single walking-gentlemen; comic men with funny faces and funny figures, ready to play the whole night through from six till twelve, in four pieces, and to interpolate a "variety of singing and dancing" between each; portly matrons--Emilias and Belvideras now-who have passed their entire life upon the stage, and who at five years of age first made their appearance as flying fairies; sharp wizen-faced little old ladies, who can still "make-up young at night," and who are on the lookout for the smart _soubrette_ and singing-chambermaid's line; and heavy tragedians--these most difficult of all to provide for-with books full of testimonials extracted from the potential criticisms of provincial journals. The ladies looked in, made their inquiries as to "any news," and went away to their homes again; but the gentlemen remained about all day long, lounging in Beak Street, leaning against posts, amicably fencing together with their ashen sticks, gazing at the playbills of the metropolitan theatres, and wondering when their names will appear there. Through a little knot of these upholders of the mirror, Mr. Effingham and Mr. Griffiths made their way up the dark dirty staircase past the crowded landing, until they came into the sanctuary of the office. Here was a dirty-faced boy acting as clerk, who exhibited a strong desire to enter their names and requirements in a large leather-covered book before him; but Griffiths caught sight of Mr. Trapman engaged in deep and apparently interesting conversation with a short dark man in a braided overcoat, and a telegraphic wink of recognition passed between them. As it was the boy's duty to notice everything, he saw the wink, and left them without further molestation, until Mr. Trapman had got rid of his interlocutor, and had come over to talk to them. "Well, and how are you?" said he, slapping Mr. Griffiths on the back.--"Servant, sir," to Mr. Effingham.--"And how _are_ you?" Slaps repeated. "Fust rate," said Mr. Griffiths, poking him in the ribs. "This is Mr. Effingham, friend of mine, and a re-markably downy card!" Wouldn't be a friend of yours if he wasn't, said Mr. Trapman, with another bow to D'Ossay. "Well, and what's up? Given up the gaff, I suppose. Seven to nine! all equal!--no more of that just now, eh?" "No; not in town. Sir Charles Rowan and Colonel Mayne at Scotland Yard, they know too much,--they do. No; I ain't here on business."