"Perhaps you would like to see my work as far as it has gone," she inquired, without raising her voice, "to assure yourself that it is authentic, that my vocation is not unlawful."
Kestner, in a mechanical continuation of his rôle, raised the ear-trumpet to the edge of his wig.
"That is quite unnecessary," said the woman at the drawing-desk, with a movement that seemed one of mingled contempt and impatience. "You heard perfectly well what I said!"
And still Kestner remained silent, knowing only too well that his voice would irretrievably betray him. He merely watched the woman as she crossed to the wide-topped table on which the telephone stood. There she sat down, facing him.
"The make-up is admirable, monsieur," she went on in a coerced evenness of tone. "But work such as mine demands unusual acuteness of eyesight." She leaned forward on the table. "I am Maura Lambert. And you are Lewis Kestner. I had the pleasure of recognising you when you first came into the room. So please be seated, Mr. Kestner."
The moment was not a happy one for Lewis Kestner. He found himself, in the first place, confronted by the ignominy of being beaten at his own game. He also faced the humiliation of the actor who has failed in sustaining a rôle. And he nursed the forlorn realisation, as he stared at her through the futile amber-coloured glasses, that he was both cutting a very sorry figure and that nothing was now to be gained by trying to face the thing out.
"But was it a pleasure. Miss Lambert." he in-
