There was a sound of hurried and heavy footsteps in the passage and a breathless voice cried:

“Cecile! Cecile! Are you there?”

“It’s mother’s voice,” said Jammes. “What’s the matter?”

She opened the door. A respectable lady, built on the lines of a Pomeranian grenadier, burst into the dressing-room and dropped groaning into a vacant armchair. Her eyes rolled madly in her brick-dust colored face.

“How awful!” she said. “How awful!”

“What? What?”

“Joseph Buquet⁠—”

“What about him?”

“Joseph Buquet is dead!”