The performance finished wish a rousing historical narrative: the entire company played the men and women of a village on the shore of the ocean, SCVCD hundred years before our modem times. They saw shapes rising from the sea, in the distance. The hero joyously proclaimed to the villagers that these were the Old Ones whose coming was foretold, returning to us from R'lych, and from dim Carcosa, and from the plains of Leng, where they had slept, or waited, or passed out the time of their death. The comedian opined that the other villagers had all been eating too many pies and drinking too much ale, and they were imagining the shapes. A portly gentleman playing a priest of the Roman God tells the villagers that the shapes in the sea were monsters and demons, and must be destroyed.
At the climax, the hero beat the priest to death with his own crucifer, and prepared to welcome Them as They came. The heroine sang a haunting aria, whilst, in an astonishing display of magic-lantern trickery, it seemed as if we saw Their shadows cross the sky at the back of the stage: the Queen of Albion herself, and the Black One of Egypt (in shape almost like a man), followed by the Ancient Goat, Parent to a Thousand, Emperor of all China, and the Czar Unanswerable, and He Who Presides over the New World, and the White Lady of the Antarctic Fastness, and the others. And as each shadow crossed the stage, or appeared to, from out of every throat in the gallery came, unbidden, a mighty "Huzzah!" until the air itself seemed to vibrate. The moon rose in the painted sky, and then, at its height, in one final moment of theatrical magic, it turned from a pallid yellow, as it was in the old tales, to the comforting crimson of the moon that shines down upon us all today.
The members of the cast took their bows and their curtain calls to cheers and laughter, and the curtain felt for the last time, and the show was done.
"There," said my friend. "What did you think?"
"Jolly, jolly good," I told him, my hands sore from applauding.
"Stout fellow," he said, with a smile. "Let us go backstage,"
We walked outside and into an alley beside the theatre, to the stage door, where a thin woman with a wen on her cheek knitted busily. My friend showed her a visiting card, and she directed us into the building and up some steps to a small communal dressing room.
Oil lamps and candles guttered in front of smeared looking-glasses, and men and women were taking off their make-up and costumes with no regard to the proprieties of gender. I averted my eyes. My friend seemed unperturbed. "Might I talk So Mr Vemet?" he asked, loudly.
A young woman who had played the heroine's best friend in the first play, and the saucy innkeeper's daughter in the last, pointed us to the end of the room. "Sherry! Sherry Vernet!" she called.
The young man who stood up in response was lean; less conventionally handsome than he had seemed from the other side of the footlights. He peered at us quizzically. "I do not believe I have had the pleasure…?"
"My name is Henry Camberley," said my friend, drawling his speech somewhat. "You may have heard of me."
"I must confess that I have not had that privilege," said Vemet.
My friend presented the actor with an engraved card.
The man looked at the card with unfeigned interest. "A theatrical promoter? From the New World? My, my. And this is…?" He looked at me.
"This is a friend of mine, Mister Sebastian. He is not of the profession."
I muttered something about having enjoyed the performance enormously, and shook hands with the actor.
My friend said, "Have you ever visited the New World?"
"I have not yet had that honour," admitted Vernet, "although it has always been my dearest wish."
"Well, my good man," said my friend, with the easy informality of a New Worlder. "Maybe you'll get your wish. That last play. I've never seen anything like it. Did you write it?"
"Alas, no. The playwright is a good friend of mine. Although I devised the mechanism of the magic lantern shadow show. You'll not see finer on the stage today."
"Would you give me the playwright's name? Perhaps I should speak to him directly, this friend of yours."
Vernet shook his head. "That will not be possible, I am afraid. He is a professional man, and does not wish his connection with the stage publically to be known."
"I see." My friend pulled a pipe from his pocket, and put it in his mouth. Then he patted his pockets. "I am sorry," he began. "I have forgotten to bring my tobacco pouch."
"I smoke a strong black shag," said the actor, "but if you have no objection—"
"None!" said my friend, heartily. "Why, I smoke a strong shag myself," and he tilled his pipe with the actor's tobacco, and the two men puffed away, white my friend described a vision he had far a piay that could tour the cities of the New World, from Manhattan Island aM the way to the furthest tip of the continent in the distant south. The first act would be the last play we had seen. The rest of the play might perhaps tell of the dominion of the Old Ones over humanity and its gods, perhaps telling what might have happened if people had had no Royal Families to look up to—a world of barbarism and darkness—"But your mysterious professional man would be the play's author, and what occurs would be his alone to decide," interjected my friend. ''Our drama would be his. But I can guarantee you audiences beyond your imaginings, and a significant share of the takings at the door. Let us say fifty per-cent!"
"This is most exciting," said Vemet. "I hope it will not turn out to have been a pipe-dream!"
"No sir, it shall not!" said my friend, puffing on his own pipe, chuckling at the man's joke. "Come to my rooms in Baker Street tomorrow morning, after breakfast-time, say at ten, in company with your author friend, and I shall have the contracts drawn up and waiting."
With that the actor clambered up onto his chair and clapped his hands for silence. "Ladies and Gentlemen of the company, I have an announcement to make," he said, his resonant voice filling the room. "This gentleman is Henry Camberley, the theatrical promoter, and he is proposing to take us across the Atlantic Ocean, and on to fame and fortune."
There were several cheers, and the comedian said, "Well, it'll make a change from herrings and pickled-cabbage," and the company laughed.
And it was to the smiles of all of them that we walked out of the theatre and out onto the fog-wreathed streets.
"My dear fellow," I said. "Whatever was—"
"Not another word," said my friend. "There are many ears in the city."
And not another word was spoken uniil we had hailed a cab, and clambered inside, and were rattling up the Charing Cross Road.
And even then, before he said anything, my friend took his pipe from his mouth, and emptied the half-smoked contents of the bowl into a small tin. He pressed the lid onto the tin, and placed it into his pocket.
"There," he said. "That's the Tall Man found, or I'm a Dutchman. Now, we just have to hope that the cupidity and the curiosity of the Limping Doctor proves enough to bring him to us tomorrow morning."
"The Limping Doctor?"
My friend snorted. "That is what I have been calling him. It was obvious, from footprints and much else besides, when we saw the Prince's body, that two men had been in that room that night: a tall man, who, unless I miss my guess, we have just encountered, and a smaller man with a limp, who eviscerated the prince with a professional skill that betrays the medical man."
"A doctor?"
"Indeed. I hate to say this, but it is my experience that when a Doctor goes to the bad, he is a fouler and darker creature than the worst cut-throat. There was Huston, the acid-bath man, and Campbell, who brought the procrustean bed to Ealing,,." and he carried on in a similar vein for the rest of our journey.