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walking nervously about the foyer, the short grey hairs on the back of his neck standing as they do whenever he is anxious or angry. He had instructed me to arrange a meeting in his office with Mr. Farquhar Pratt as soon as the old man proved himself fit and coherent. This was done, and the meeting was scheduled for this morning.
    Mr. Wilton always arrives early to the theatre. I have no idea how early. My work day begins at eight o’clock, and I have on occasion arrived as early as seven, only to find Old Stoneface in his leather chair going over statements from his textile factories.
    When I passed his office at eight o’clock this morning, Mr. Wilton was sitting behind his great oak desk, staring mono- ton ously at the wall in front of him. He seemed in a kind of fugue state. It did not register with him that I had arrived until some moments after I passed his office, and I was a good way down the corridor when I heard his colonel’s gruff voice calling out, “Is Mr. Farquhar Pratt in yet?”
    I retraced my steps to his open door. “He hasn’t arrived yet, sir.”
    “Well, please let me know as soon as he is here.”
    Arriving at the theatre at nine o’clock, Pratty looked much more himself than in the recent past. He was properly dressed, albeit in the same tattered great coat he has worn this entire year. He carried a weathered brown satchel under his arm. His face was white and perhaps a trifle puffy about the eyes but no more so than at any time in the past six months. He looked as though he had had a good night’s sleep, which is perhaps uncharacteristic of the old man.
    “What’s the business now?” he inquired, when we were downstairs. “Am I to be relieved of my posting?” The question was blunt and bluntly put; it was apparent that some of Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s bygone pugilism had revived and that he was determined to protect himself from any further erosion of his responsibilities.
    I deflected these questions as best I could. “I’m not entirely certain about what Mr. Wilton has in mind,” I said. “Let us go upstairs to his office and find out, shall we? I would not be anxious or unhappy, though. Mr. Wilton is an honourable man.”
    “Yes,” said Pratty, his jaw set, “we shall see.”
    Mr. Wilton was still preoccupied with something on the wall opposite his desk when I escorted Mr. Farquhar Pratt into his office. He graciously offered Mr. Farquhar Pratt a chair.
    I lingered in the doorway. “Will that be all then, Mr. Wilton?” I asked. My hope was that my presence would not be required during Pratty’s demotion, which was most certainly on the agenda.
    “Have a chair, Phillips.” There was an air of command in Mr. Wilton’s voice.
    I closed the door and sat in one of the antique chairs opposite Mr. Wilton’s desk. There was an audible drawing in of breath, first from Mr. Wilton and then from Pratty. Each man paused as if waiting for the other to speak. Finally Mr. Wilton drew his breath again and said, “You have been employed at the New Albion for quite some time, Mr. Farquhar Pratt.”
    There was another silence, which was broken at last when Pratty said, “Eight, going on nine years, sir. I was snatched up from the Royal Victoria when my market value was high. I had only just written The Vicissitudes of a Servant Girl , which played for upwards of a hundred nights in that theatre. Before that time, I had spent fifteen years as Acting Manager and Stock Playwright at the Standard Theatre. Mr. Jonathan Edwards holds me in high regard to this day.” There was an unmistakeable air of petulance in his voice. Both Mr. Wilton and I had been regaled with the successes of Vicissitudes of a Servant Girl on numerous occasions, but on this occasion there was a hard edge to the presentation.
    “Yes,” replied Mr. Wilton, “I am certain that Mr. Edwards holds you in high regard, and I am certain that you were as great a favourite at Mr. Osbaldiston’s theatre as you are here.”
    “I