"I have just seen her likeness—in a group—round there"—explained Uncle Fred, waving his umbrella vaguely towards the front of the house. "It very often starts that way," remarked the stage-door man. "But why not pay for a seat, like a little gentleman, and go in front and see the gel?" "She’s my niece," explained Uncle Fred. "They always are," said the stage-door man. "Or else cousins! Good night, Tirpitz!" He shut the little glass shutter in the investigator’s face, and recomposed his features to slumber. But Uncle Fred, though not a dashing person, possessed some elements of the dogged persistence of the Clegg family. He rapped on the window-pane. The stage-door man opened it again. "Now, you run away!" he said. "’Op it! Sling yer ’ook, or I’ll set the cat on you!" "Is my niece here to-night?" asked Uncle Fred, employing the handle of his umbrella as a lever of the third order. "I am very anxious to have a few words with her, on a domestic matter. I see a notice outside, saying that the present entertainment concluded last week. But it has occurred to me that it is still possible—" The stage-door man slid from his stool, came out of his den, and laid a heavy hand, not unkindly, on the orator’s shoulder. "What you want to do, ole friend," he said, "is to ’ire the Albert ’All, and make a night of it! That’ll get it out of your system nicely. Good-bye!" He gently impelled his guest in the direction of the street. "I want my niece’s address," gasped Uncle Fred, clinging like a limpet to the door-post. "Go along, you silly old sinner!" said the stage-door man, disengaging him. "I’m ashamed of you." "I will pay you!" said Uncle Fred desperately. The stage-door man relaxed at once. "Now you’re _talking_!" he announced. Five minutes later, after a sordid commercial wrangle, Uncle Fred emerged from the stage door with a slip of paper in his hand. He walked straight into the arms of three members of His Majesty’s Forces. They recognised him, and drew back in affected horror. "What, again?" cried the Canadian. "My God, he’s a Mormon! Come along, boys!" *CHAPTER XVI* *THE GREAT PRETEND* "And the sweet?" enquired Marjorie, pencil poised. "_Méringues!_" said Liss firmly. "Well, I would say chocolate _soufflé_ every time—with whipped cream, of course!" replied Marjorie. "But have it your own way. Now for the savoury!" "We don’t want a savoury," said Liss. "Remember," Marjorie reminded her, "that there will be gentlemen present." "I was forgetting the gentlemen. Well—what?" "_My_ gentleman friend," said Marjorie, "is very fond of angels-on-horseback." "All right! You can put them down if you like; only don’t ask me to eat them: I expect I shall be stodged by that time, anyhow. Oh Marjie, if only it were true!" Liss hugged her hungry little self, longingly.