of a Venetian palace built over a practical canal on which gondolas floated in real water. The space in front of the stages was devoted to a garden intersected by walks on which actors in costumes and make-up dashed about in all directions. Out of a circular pool in the centre a fountain played.
Following the secretary around the corner of Stage No. 8, Ambrose came upon a two-storey structure with a balcony, approached by a flight of exterior steps. Both on the ground and balcony floors this building was honeycombed with doors. Mounting the staircase, they walked along the balcony until the secretary tapped on a door on which was painted the name of Philip Lawrence.
Come in, was the cheery invitation.
The secretary pushed the door open and Ambrose, entering, stood in a cubicle furnished with two chairs and a table. A roughly painted sign on the wall informed inquisitive visitors that fifty million Frenchmen can't be wrong. A young man with a snub nose, dark eyes, and violently red hair sat before the table with his feet upon it. Apparently he was devoting all his energies to smoking a pipe.
Hello, he cried, before the secretary had time to speak, I'll bet you're Ambrose Deacon!
