to long-bearded customer_). Yes, Sir?

_L.-B. Customer._ H'sh! (_Removes portion of beard._) I am Inspector
Heidegg!

_Poulard._ Fried egg?

_Inspector_ (_annoyed_). Heidegg. (_Replaces beard._) A gang of
desperate desperados, headed by the ruffianly ruffian whom they call The
Baron, will be here to-night. I shall be hiding under the counter. Ten
men and two dachshunds surround the house. If you betray me your licence
will not be worth a moment's purchase.

[He dives under the counter. Poulard, rather upset, goes out and
kicks the waiter.

_Enter the gang of desperados, male and female. A scene of horrible
debauchery ensues._

_Charlier_ (_revelling recklessly_). Small lemonade, waiter.

_Picard_ (_with abandoned gaiety_). A dry biscuit and a glass of milk.

_Jacquot_ (_letting himself go_). Dash, bother, hang, bust!

_Picard_ (_to_ Merlin). Why don't you revel?

_Merlin_ (_giving Suzanne a nudge_). What-ho!
[_Relapses into silence again._

_Picard_ (_gaily_). A song! a song!

_Charlier_ (_in an agonised whisper_). You fool, none of us can sing!

_Picard._ What about the girl who sang the recruiting song before the
play began? Isn't she behind the scenes still? (_Cracking his biscuit._)
Well, let's have a dance anyway. We must make the thing _go._ Waiter,
_another_ glass of milk.

_Enter Judge Hallers in scowl and muffler._

_Charlier_ (_enthusiastically_). Ha! The Baron!

_Hallers._ I mean business to-night, boys. Look at this! (_He produces a
dagger and a pistol._)

_Charlier._ What a man!

[_He throws away his pea-shooter in disgust._ Jacquot, _who has just
begun to strop a fish-knife, realizes that he has been outdone in
devilry, and gives it back to the waiter. Picard replaces his
knotted handkerchief._

_Hallers._ Yes, boys, I've got a crib for you to crack to-night. It's
Judge Hallers' house. (_A loud bumping noise is heard from the direction
of the counter._) What's that?

_It is_ Inspector Heidegg. (_Raising his head incautiously, in order to
catch his first sight of the notorious Baron, he has struck the top of
his skull against the counter and is now lying stunned._)

_All._ A spy!

_Hallers._ Bring him out ... Ha! Who is he? Is that his own beard or
Clarkson's?

_Charlier._ It's a police inspector in a false beard!

_Mr. BOURCHIER_ (_contemptuously_).

A real artist would have _grown_ a beard. (_Producing his knife._) He
must die.

(_There i