“That’s a bit of all right!” murmured Allerdyke, when the child had finished her first contribution.  “That’s a clever little party!  But she’s too big in the eye, and too small in the bone—­wants plenty of new milk, and new-laid eggs, and fresh air, and not so much piano-thumping, does that.  Clever—­clever—­but unnatural, Fullaway!—­they mustn’t let her do too much at that.  Well, now I suppose we shall see the shoe-buckle lady.”

The packed audience evidently supposed the same thing.  Over it—­the infant prodigy having received her meed of applause and bobbed herself awkwardly out of sight—­had come that atmosphere of expectancy which invariably heralds the appearance of the great figure on any similar occasion.  It needed no special intuition on Allerdyke’s part to know that all these people were itching to show their fondness for Zelie de Longarde by clapping their hands, waving their program, and otherwise manifesting their delight at once more seeing a prime favourite.  All eyes were fixed on the wing of the platform, all hands were ready to give welcome.  But a minute passed—­two minutes—­three minutes—­and Zelie de Longarde did not appear.  Another minute—­and then, endeavouring to smile bravely and reassuringly, and not succeeding particularly well in the attempt, a tall, elaborately attired, carefully polished-up man, unmistakably German, blonde, heavy, suave, suddenly walked on to the platform and did obeisance to the audience.

“Weiss!” whispered Fullaway.  “Something’s wrong!  Look at his face—­he’s in big trouble.”

The concert-director straightened himself from that semi-military bow, and looked at the faces in front of him with a mute appeal.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I have to entreat the high favour of your kind indulgence.  Mademoiselle de Longarde is not yet arrived from her hotel.  I hope—­I think—­she is now on her way.  In the meantime I propose, with your gracious consent, to continue, our program with the next item, at the conclusion of which, I hope, Mademoiselle will appear.”

The audience was sympathetic—­the audience was ready to be placated.  It gave cordial hearing and warm favour to the singer of Scottish melodies—­it even played into Mr. Concert-Director Weiss’s hands by according the local singer an encore.  But when he had finally retired there was another wait, a longer one which lengthened unduly, a note of impatience sounded from the gallery; it was taken up elsewhere.  And suddenly Weiss came again upon the platform—­this time with no affectation of suave entreaty.  He was plainly much upset; his elegant waistcoat seemed to have assumed careworn creases, his mop of blonde hair was palpably rumpled as if he had been endeavouring to tear some of its wavy locks out by force.  And when he spoke his fat voice shook with a mixture of chagrin and anger.