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like an abandoned chapel than an ex-theatre. Except for a house huddled in trees a short distance away, and a few cottages, the landscape appeared curiously without life or activity. The house I guessed was Luigi’s home, and was probably more attractive from the other side because the glint of water showed through the interlaced branches of woodland, which could have been the river winding below.
    ‘ So here we are,’ I heard Mr Verne saying, as the chaise came to a halt. He took my gloved hand and helped me from the vehicle, adding a second later, ‘You’re very quiet. Nervous?’
    ‘ No,’ I told him, ‘well, a little perhaps. I was just thinking how deserted everything seems—’ My voice trailed off vaguely.
    ‘ Oh, Luigi likes solitude, except for opera and good music.’
    ‘ Is there an organ inside?’ I asked thoughtlessly.
    ‘ Good heavens, no. There might have been once of course. Before it was a theatre, in early Methodist times the place was a chapel.’
    So I’d been right. ‘I thought so.’
    ‘ Did you now?’
    ‘ Yes. I kind of felt it.’
    ‘ Well, bring your thoughts to what is important at the moment and think of how to make a good impression on my friend,’ Mr Verne said almost sternly.
    I could feel myself flush, resentful that he should address me like that, as though I was a child.
    ‘ I shall do my best,’ I said stiffly. ‘I’m not entirely an ignoramus.’
    His hand involuntarily tightened on my arm.
    ‘ Calm yourself,’ he said, as we mounted the few steps to the door. ‘There’s no need to snap. I’m more concerned for your welfare than my own. Just be your natural self and put on no airs then everything will be all right.’ There was a pause before he touched the bell-pull. ‘You look — quite adorable,’ he added encouragingly after a hurried glance at my profile.
    The compliment startled me, sending a rush of exhilaration through my veins. I raised my head proudly in anticipation of the meeting, and as the heavy bell clanged, reverberating with a hollow sound through the silence, I smoothed my gloves and then lifted my cloak a few inches so the hem was saved from dust or catching the toes of my pointed boots.
    There was a rattle of a bolt being drawn, and we went in. My instant impression was of emptiness and tall narrow windows in recesses where lamps had been lighted. At the far end was a raised platform, presumably a one-time stage. The whole effect was gloomy rather than inspiring. I could imagine in the past, before the building had been a theatre, dark-clad preachers issuing dire forebodings to congregations of sombre religious converts. The singing would be of doleful psalms and hymns.
    I felt suddenly trapped, with a wild instinctive desire to turn and rush out into the fresh air. Just as quickly I came to myself again. The nerve-crisis was over, and I was aware of Mr Verne presenting another shorter figure — Signor Luigi. I lifted my right hand instinctively, and as dutifully the rather portly little man raised it to his lips brushing the tips of my fingers briefly, before straightening up to his full height so the light fell directly on his face.
    His brow was wide under thick crisply curling white hair; his complexion, though olive, was flushed at the high cheek bones, and this somehow added to the intense piercing quality of curiously light grey eyes under beetling brows. A carefully clipped grey beard added to an air of almost regal distinction which was emphasised by a maroon-coloured waisted velvet jacket and carefully cut black fitting trousers. He wore a white silk neckcloth. In spite of his somewhat florid appearance, there was still an aura of theatre about him, and I guessed he had a temper and could be irascible.
    My deduction proved to be correct.
    Following the first introductions Rupert Verne left, saying he would return in an hour to collect me.
    After that my testing period — more of an interrogation, I felt — began.
    First of all,