“Maybe. Some day, when I’m living in a place like this, I’ll let you know if you’re right.” In less than a year Wallie Ascher was working with Hahn. No one knew his official title or place. But, “Ask Wallie. He’ll know,” had become a sort of slogan in the office. He did know. At twenty-one his knowledge of the theatre was infallible (this does not include plays unproduced. In this no one is infallible) and his feeling for it amounted to a sixth sense. There was something uncanny about the way he could talk about Lotta, for example, as if he had seen her; or Mrs. Siddons; or Mrs. Fiske, when she was Minnie Maddern, the soubrette. It was as though he had the power to cast himself back in the past. No doubt it was that power which gave later to his group of historical plays (written by him between the ages of thirty and thirty-five) their convincingness and authority. When Wallie was about twenty-three or four years old Sid Hahn took him abroad with him on one of his annual scouting trips. Yearly, in the spring, Hahn swooped down upon London, Paris, Berlin, seeking that of the foreign stage which might be translated, fumigated, desiccated or otherwise rendered suitable for home use. He sent Wallie on to Vienna, alone, on the trail of a musical comedy which was rumored to be a second _Merry Widow_ in tunefulness, chic and charm. Of course it wasn’t. _Merry Widows_ rarely repeat themselves. Wallie wired back to Hahn, as arranged. The telegram is unimportant, perhaps, but characteristic. Mr. Sid Hahn, Hotel Savoy, London, England. It’s a second all right but not a second _Merry Widow_. Heard of a winner in Budapest shall I go. Spent to-day from eleven to five running around the Ringstrasse looking for mythical creature known as the chic Viennese. After careful investigation wish to be quoted as saying the species if any is extinct. This, remember, was in the year 1913, B. W. Wallie, obeying instructions, went to Budapest, witnessed the alleged winner, found it as advertised, wired Hahn and was joined by that gentleman three days later. Budapest, at that time, was still Little Paris, only wickeder. A city of magnificent buildings, and unsalted caviar, and beautiful dangerous women, and frumpy men (civilian) and dashing officers in red pants, and Cigány music, and cafés, and paprika, and two-horse droshkies. Buda, low and flat, lay on one side; Pest, high and hilly, perched picturesquely on the other. Between the two rolled the Blue Danube (which is yellow). It was there that Hahn and Wallie found Mizzi Markis. Wallie found her, really. Mizzi Markis, then a girl of nineteen, was a hod-carrier. As Hahn stepped from the train, geometrically square in a long ulster that touched his ears and his heels, Wallie met him with a bound. “Hello, S. H.! Great to see you! Say, listen, I’ve found something. I’ve found something big!” Hahn had never seen the boy so excited. “Oh, shucks! No play’s as good as that.”