“Don’t trouble yourself, young gentleman,” said the newcomer, in a good-humoured, offhand way.  “Can you tell me whether I’m anywhere near a place called Moorcombe Court?”

“Yes—­it’s not far off,” replied Austin, immediately interested.  “I’ve just come from there myself.”

“Really, now!” was the gentleman’s rejoinder.  “And how’s me friend St Aubyn?”

So he was Mr St Aubyn’s friend—­or claimed to be.  “I really suspected,” said Austin to himself, “that he must be a bailiff.”  From which it may be inferred that the youth’s acquaintance with bailiffs was somewhat limited.  Then he said, aloud: 

“I believe he’s quite well, thank you, but I’m afraid you’ll not be able to see him.  He’s gone out somewhere for the day.”

“Dear me, now, that’s a pity!” exclaimed the stranger, taking off his hat and wiping his hot, bald head.  “Dear old Roger—­it’s years since we met, and I was quite looking forward to enjoying a chat with him about old times.  Well, well, another day will do, no doubt.  You don’t live at the Court, do you?”

“I?  Oh, no,” said Austin.  “I only visit there.  It is such a charming place!”

“Shouldn’t wonder,” remarked the other, nodding.  “Our friend’s a rich man, and can afford to gratify his tastes—­which are rather expensive ones, or used to be when I knew him years ago.  I must squeeze an hour to go and see him some time or other while I’m here, if I can only manage it.”

“Then you are not here for long?” asked Austin, wondering who the man could be.

“Depends upon business, young gentleman,” replied the stranger.  “Depends upon how we draw.  We shall have a week for certain, but after that——­”

“How you draw?” repeated Austin, politely mystified.

“Yes, draw—­what houses we draw, to be sure,” explained the stranger.  “What, haven’t you seen the bills?  I’m on tour with ’Sardanapalus’!”

A ray of light flashed upon Austin’s memory.  “Oh!  I think I understand,” he ventured hesitatingly.  “Are you—­can you perhaps be—­er—­Mr Buckskin?”

“For Buckskin read Buskin, and you may boast of having hazarded a particularly shrewd guess,” replied the gentleman.  “Bucephalus Buskin, at your service; and, of course, the public’s.”

“Ah, now I know,” exclaimed Austin.  “The greatest actor in Europe, on or off the stage.”

“Oh come, now, come; spare my blushes, young gentleman, draw it a little milder!” cried the delighted manager, almost bursting with mock modesty.  “Greatest actor in Europe—­oh, very funny, very good indeed!  Off the stage, too!  Oh dear, dear, dear, what wags there are in the world!  And pray, young gentleman, from whom did you pick up that?”

“I think it must have been the milkman,” replied Austin simply.

“The milkman, eh?  A most discriminating milkman, ’pon my word.  Well, it’s always encouraging to find appreciation of high art, even among milkmen,” observed Mr Buskin.  “Only shows how much we owe the growing education of the masses to the drama.  Talk of the press, the pulpit, the schoolroom——­”