Every one turned to look at the door, on which a printed notice hung:  “Stage Door.  Strictly Private.”

“Yes, the door’s locked, evidently,” the chairman agreed.

“Admirable.  Sesoi the Great, will you be so kind?”

“‘Tain’t nothin’ at all,” said the giant leisurely.

He went close to the door, shook it cautiously with his hand, took out of his pocket a small bright instrument, bent down to the keyhole, made some almost imperceptible movements with the tool, suddenly straightened and flung the door wide in silence.  The chairman had his watch in his hands.  The whole affair took only ten seconds.

“Thank you, Sesoi the Great,” said the gentleman in the sandy suit politely.  “You may go back to your seat.”

But the chairman interrupted in some alarm:  “Excuse me.  This is all very interesting and instructive, but ... is it included in your esteemed colleague’s profession to be able to lock the door again?”

“Ah, mille pardons.”  The gentleman bowed hurriedly.  “It slipped my mind.  Sesoi the Great, would you oblige?”

The door was locked with the same adroitness and the same silence.  The esteemed colleague waddled back to his friends, grinning.

“Now I will have the honour to show you the skill of one of our comrades who is in the line of picking pockets in theatres and railway-stations,” continued the orator.  “He is still very young, but you may to some extent judge from the delicacy of his present work of the heights he will attain by diligence.  Yasha!” A swarthy youth in a blue silk blouse and long glace boots, like a gipsy, came forward with a swagger, fingering the tassels of his belt, and merrily screwing up his big, impudent black eyes with yellow whites.

“Gentlemen,” said the gentleman in the sandy suit persuasively, “I must ask if one of you would be kind enough to submit himself to a little experiment.  I assure you this will be an exhibition only, just a game.”

He looked round over the seated company.

The short plump Karaite, black as a beetle, came forward from his table.

“At your service,” he said amusedly.

“Yasha!” The orator signed with his head.

Yasha came close to the solicitor.  On his left arm, which was bent, hung a bright-coloured, figured scarf.

“Suppose yer in church or at the bar in one of the halls,—­or watchin’ a circus,” he began in a sugary, fluent voice.  “I see straight off—­there’s a toff...  Excuse me, sir.  Suppose you’re the toff.  There’s no offence—­just means a rich gent, decent enough, but don’t know his way about.  First—­what’s he likely to have about ’im?  All sorts.  Mostly, a ticker and a chain.  Whereabouts does he keep ’em?  Somewhere in his top vest pocket—­here.  Others have ’em in the bottom pocket.  Just here.  Purse—­most always in the trousers, except when a greeny keeps it in his jacket.  Cigar-case.  Have a look first what it is—­gold, silver—­with a monogram.  Leather—­what decent man’d soil his hands?  Cigar-case.  Seven pockets:  here, here, here, up there, there, here and here again.  That’s right, ain’t it?  That’s how you go to work.”