“I am not an extra person,” she replied.  “I have come to see Mr. Noyes,” and she displayed once more the large square envelope, her legacy from the lodger, the knife with which she proposed to shuck from its rough shell that oyster, the world.

The man looked even more astonished, if the thing could have been accomplished, and regarded her keenly—­stared.

“Come this way,” he said.

Cake followed him along a narrow passage that turned off to the right, down five steps, across a narrow entry, up three more steps—­although it seems quite silly, she never in her life forgot the odd number of those worn steps—­and halted before a closed door.  On this the fat man knocked once and opened immediately without waiting.

“Someone I think you’ll see,” he said, standing between Cake and the interior.  There came to her a murmur over his chunky shoulder.

“She has a letter from——­” The fat man dropped his voice and mumbled.  “Positive,” he said, aloud, after a pause broken only by the vague murmur within the room.  “I’d know his fist anywhere.  Yes.”  Then he pushed the door open wide, stood aside, and looked at Cake.  “Walk in,” he said.

She did so.  Beautifully.  Poems have been written about her walk.  Two kinds.

The room she entered was square, with concrete floor and rough walls.  But Cake did not notice the room for three reasons:  The rug on the floor, four pictures on the walls, and the man who looked at her as she entered.

They gazed at each other, Cake and this man, with sudden, intense concentration.  He was a genius in his line, she as surely one in hers.  And, instinctively, to that strange, bright flame each rendered instant homage.  What he saw he described long afterward when a million voices were vociferously raised in a million different descriptions.  What she saw she likened in her mind to a dark sheath from which a sword flashed gloriously.  That sword was his soul.

“He says your name is Plain Cake—­is that true?” He referred to the lodger’s letter held open in his hand, and by that she knew he was Arthur Noyes.  And great.  That last she had not needed any telling.

“Yes,” she replied.

“He says you are the right Shakespearian actress for me,” Noyes referred to the letter again.  “Do you know Shakespeare?”

“All the way,” said Cake.  It was not quite the answer Queen Katherine might have made, perhaps, but her manner was perfect.

“Come here”—­he pointed to the centre of the rapturous rug—­“and do the potion scene for me.”  Cake stepped forward.

Perhaps you have been so fortunate as to see her.  If so you know that to step forward is her only preparation.  She was poised, she was gone.  Then suddenly she heard the lodger’s voice crying: 

“Stop—­my God, stop!  How do you get that way?  Don’t you know there’s a limit to human endurance, alley-cat?”