He took Mr Buskin's card out of his pocket, and, hurrying out as fast as he could manage, stumped his way round to the stage door.

Cerberus would fain have stopped him, but Austin flourished his card in passing, and enquired of the first civil-looking man he met where the manager was to be found.

He was piloted through devious ways and under strange scaffoldings, to the foot of a steep and very dirty flight of steps--luckily there were only seven--at the top of which was dimly visible a door; and at this, having screwed his courage to the sticking-place, he knocked.
"Come in!" cried a voice inside.
He found himself on the threshold of a room such as he had never seen before.

There was no carpet, and the little furniture it contained was heaped with masses of heterogeneous clothes.

Two looking-glasses were fixed against the walls, and in front of one of them was a sort of shelf, or dresser, covered with small pots of some ungodly looking materials of a pasty appearance--rouge, grease-paint, cocoa-butter, and heaven knows what beside--with black stuff, white stuff, yellow stuff, paint-brushes, gum-pots, powder-puffs, and discoloured rags spread about in not very picturesque confusion.