A small fee soon accomplished this, and the venal waiter vanished, shortly to reappear with the message that Miss Horley would be pleased to see Dr. Ellis and friend in her dressing-room after the singing of her great patriotic song. Almost immediately afterwards she marched to the footlights in the costume of Britannia, and carrying the Union Jack. Then followed the usual piece of Jingoism about "never shall be slaves, while the banner waves, earth is thick with British graves," etc., etc. The flag was duly waved at the end of each verse, and the audience, as in duty bound, joined in with imperial ardour. While Miss Horley treated the listeners to an extra verse bearing on the local situation, Ellis and Harry Cass were guided into the back regions of the stage by a smart page-boy. He led them through a wilderness of scenes, along dark passages, and past rooms thronged with ballet girls, ultimately ushering them into a small apartment, barely furnished and flooded with unshaded electric light. Here the visitors were accommodated with two chairs, and shortly Britannia, flag and all, made her noisy appearance. She literally threw herself on the doctor. "I'm that glad to see you again, doc," cried Britannia, effusively. "Where have you been hiding all this time?" Then, without waiting for an answer, she turned to Harry: "You're a stranger, too, Mr. Cass, but better late than never. I am glad to see you. You'll both have drinks, I s'pose?" "No, thank you, Miss Horley. We just wish to congratulate you on your new song." "Ah, it knocks 'em, don't it?" said the fair Polly. "They never let me off without a triple encore. You are looking ill, doctor. It's that 'orrid murder, eh?" "What murder?" "Why, the Dukesfield murder, silly! I saw all about it in the papers; your name was there, too, and I said: 'Here's my dear old pal Ellis, who mended my spar.'" "Oh, you said that, did you?" "Rather. It was queer that you should be the doctor to see after that poor chap. I call him poor chap because he is dead," explained Miss Horley, "but I never did like that Moxton. A miserly, insulting crab-stick." "Oh, so you knew Moxton?" "Of course I did. He came here nearly every night. What is more, he took his wife from here." Ellis was painfully excited. "Mrs. Moxton? Was she a music-hall singer?" "Not she," replied Polly, disdainfully. "She hadn't the brains to sing. She typed for a living, I believe, but her sister was a programme-seller here." "Janet Gordon?" "Oh, you know her, Mr. Cass, do you?" "No, I don't, but I have heard of her." "Then I'll bet you heard nothing but good of her," cried Miss Horley, warmly. "That girl is as square a woman as ever lived. If it hadn't been for her, goodness knows what would have become of that silly little Laura." "I don't call Mrs. Moxton silly," said the doctor, annoyed by this description.