* * *
—
Gwendolen slipped as quietly as she could into Ada Sherbourne’s office. Ada Sherbourne herself was now fully occupied with her class, Gwendolen could hear her counting out the beats, “five-six-seven-eight,” with remarkable ferocity. The woman was a dragon and Gwendolen was trespassing in the dragon’s lair.
The orderly arrangement of things in the office made the task of searching easier than it might have been. Against one wall there was a four-drawer oak filing cabinet, each drawer labelled in copperplate handwriting, with the third one down helpfully announcing itself to be “Students.” Inside the filing cabinet everything was neatly alphabetical—Ada Sherbourne would have made an excellent librarian, she could have given Mr. Pollock a run for his money.
And there she was, in a hanging folder tabbed “L–M”—“Freda Murgatroyd” and an address—Henrietta Street, number four.
The counting had stopped and Gwendolen was convinced that she would be accosted by Ada Sherbourne before she could make a successful escape. The idea made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. She would like to see Ada Sherbourne locked in a room with Mrs. Bodley in a draconian contest. Her money would be on Mrs. Bodley （her resentments had more flair）， but it would be a close-run thing.
“One-two-three-four!” The relentless counting started up again. Gwendolen breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the front door. She closed it quietly behind her.
Cissy had always castigated her sister for being an undisciplined child, but really Freda must have nerves of steel to subject herself to the rigours of dance.
* * *
—
“Ten minutes from here,” a man behind the counter of a tobacconist in Greek Street said when Gwendolen ducked in to ask for directions. She had been going round in circles for some time since leaving the Vanbrugh Academy of Dance. A London “ten minutes” was beginning to seem a good deal longer than a Yorkshire one.
Long Acre again! She had already walked along Bow Street and was on the verge of giving in to frustration and seeking out Frobisher to ask him to reorientate her when happily she chanced upon Stanford’s bookshop and a helpful young man sold her the mysterious Bartholomew’s. Of course—a map. She remembered now being asked for one in the Library. “I’m an idiot,” she said to the helpful young man, who said, “Not at all, madam,” and, what was more, he unfolded the virgin creases of the map and pointed out the route she should take. “Five minutes away,” he promised and, thankfully, he was right.
* * *
—
There was no sign of Betty in Mayfair at the Adelphi. Instead, the front of the theatre was plastered with posters advertising The Green Hat, alongside large photographs of the leading lady, Tallulah Bankhead. （Gwendolen imagined Mr. Pollock’s wrath.） She would buy a ticket, she thought. Perhaps she should buy two and invite Frobisher, although it was difficult to image that The Green Hat would be to his taste. What would be to his taste?, she wondered. Rigorous opera, perhaps, or exhausting choral music （she liked neither）。 But surely the man must be in possession of some lightness of being? If he was, she determined she would find it.
The theatre was closed and she eventually found her way round to the stage door in Maiden Lane. Bartholomew had been no help, he seemed to have no interest in mapping the stage doors of London.
The stage door was open, the doorman visible. “I’m looking for someone—a Freda Murgatroyd—she had an audition here,” she said. A callow youth, rather jaundiced-looking, was sent for. The callow youth gave her a pitying look. “Do you have any idea how many girls come through this door?”
And did they all also come back out of that door?, Gwendolen wondered. “No, I don’t actually,” she said.
“Hundreds, that’s how many,” he said indignantly. “And I couldn’t tell you the name of a single one of them.” Gwendolen wished she had Freda’s photograph with her; it might have helped to jog this strange boy’s memory.
“I shall ask Management,” he said grandly and disappeared for so long that Gwendolen supposed he must have forgotten, but eventually he resurfaced and said, “No, no one knows anyone by the name of Freda Murgatroyd.” He lit a cigarette, rather ostentatiously, as if proud of being a smoker. Gwendolen doubted that he was much older than Freda. “Was there something else?” he asked.
As the callow youth turned to go, Gwendolen said, “Did she get the part?” but the boy just laughed （a joke shared by the doorman, apparently） and said, “What part?”