Rose said nothing. She was seated in the one chair which went with the portable property, and her head had fallen forward upon her arms, which were stretched upon the deal table. Her hat, a poor little woollen tam-o'-shanter, was pushed back from her head. Her jacket was unfastened. The rain beat down upon the tin roof. "I'd sell my soul for a whisky and soda," Leonard, our erstwhile humourist, declared wistfully. "And I mine," I echoed, thinking of Rose, "for a good supper, a warm fire and a comfortable bed." "And I mine," Rose faltered, looking up and dabbing at her eyes with a morsel of handkerchief, "for a cigarette." There was a clap of thunder. The flap of canvas which led to the back of the stage shook as though the whole place were coming down. We looked up apprehensively and found that we were no longer alone. A clean-shaven man of medium height, dressed in a long mackintosh and carrying a tweed cap in his hand, had succeeded in effecting a difficult entrance. His appearance, even at that time, puzzled us. His face was perfectly smooth, he was inclined to be bald, his eyes were unusually bright, and there was a noticeable curve at the corners of his lips which might have meant either humour or malevolence. We had no idea what to make of him. One thing was certain, however,--he was not the man an interview with whom we were dreading. "Mephistopheles himself could scarcely have made a more opportune entrance," he remarked, as the crash of thunder subsided into a distant mutter. "Permit me." He crossed towards us with a courteous little bow and extended a gold cigarette case, amply filled. Rose took one without hesitation and lit it. We also helped ourselves. The newcomer replaced the case in his pocket. "I will take the liberty," he continued, "of introducing myself. My name is Richard Thomson." "A very excellent name," Leonard murmured. "A more than excellent cigarette," I echoed. "You are the gentleman who sat in the three-shilling seats," Rose remarked, looking at him curiously. Mr. Richard Thomson bowed. "I was there last night and the night before," he acknowledged. "On each occasion I found with regret that I was alone." No one likes to be reminded of failure. I answered a little hastily. "You have established your position, sir, as a patron of our ill-omened enterprise. May I ask to what we are indebted for the honour of this visit?" "In the first place, to invite you all to supper," was the brisk reply. "Secondly, to ask if I can be of any service in helping you to get rid of that bearded rascal Drummond, whom I see hanging about at the entrance. And in the third place--but I think," he added, after a queer and oddly prolonged pause, "that we might leave that till afterwards."