Fenn had heard his deep voice booming as
he went up the passage.
His brother did the honours.
"Glad to see you, glad to see you," said Mr Higgs, for the fat man was
none other than that celebrity. "Take a seat."
Fenn sat down on the chest and promptly tore his trousers on a jagged
piece of iron.
"These provincial dressing-rooms!" said Mr Higgs, by way of comment.
"No room! Never any room! No chairs! Nothing!"
He spoke in short, quick sentences, and gasped between each. Fenn said
it really didn't matter--he was quite comfortable.
"Haven't they done anything about it?" asked Fenn's brother, resuming
the conversation which Fenn's entrance had interrupted. "We've been
having a burglary here," he explained. "Somebody got into the theatre
last night through a window. I don't know what they expected to find."
"Why," said Fenn, "we've had a burglar up our way too. Chap broke into
the school house and went through the old man's drawing-room. The
school house men have been talking about nothing else ever since. I
wonder if it's the same crew."
Mr Higgs turned in his chair, and waved a stick of grease paint
impressively to emphasise his point.
"There," he said. "There! What I've been saying all along. No doubt of
it. Organised gang. And what are the police doing? Nothing, sir,
nothing. Making inquiries.
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