“I suppose I may take it that that applies to every one you deal with? I know I can trust you, for you always treat me frankly; and this is a matter I am exceedingly anxious about.” For answer I rang the bell for the commissionaire in waiting on the office and sent him round to the box-office to bring me the booking sheets for six weeks ahead. These I duly placed before the agent—Librarian they called them in those days, as they were the survivors of the old lending libraries who used to secure theatre tickets for their customers. “See for yourself!” I said; and he turned over the sheets, every seat on which was marked as sold. “It is very extraordinary!” he said after a pause. By this time my own curiosity was piqued and I asked him to tell me what it all meant. “It means this,” he said. “Things can’t go on at this rate. We have not sold a single ticket this week for any theatre in London!” I opened a drawer and took out what we called the “Ushers’ Returns” for each night that week. We used to have, as means of checking the receipts of the house in addition to the tickets, a set of returns made by the ushers. Each usher had a sectional chart of the seats under his charge, and he had to show which was occupied during the evening, and which, if any, were unoccupied. I had not gone over these as all the seats having been sold it did not much matter to us whether they were occupied or not. To my surprise I found that on each night, growing as the week went on, were quite a number of seats unoccupied. On reference to the full plan I found that most of these were seats sold to the libraries, but that a good proportion of them had been booked at our own office. Neither of us could account for such a thing in any way. When the next, and then the third agent came there was a strong sense over me that _something_ was happening in the great world. As a rule when there is pressure in a theatre the seats belonging to agents remaining unsold can always be disposed of in the theatre box office. That night Irving had a little supper party of intimate friends in the Beefsteak Room; amongst them one man, Major Ricarde-Seaver, well skilled in the world of _haute finance_. In the course of conversation I asked him: “What is up? There is something going to happen! What is it?” He asked me why I thought so, and I told him. “That is certainly strange!” was his comment. “Then you don’t know?” “Know what?” I asked. “What is going to happen?” His answer came after a pause. “You will know soon. Possibly to-morrow; certainly the next day!” The mystery was thickening. Again I asked: “What is it?” The answer came with a shock: “Baring’s! They’ve gone under!”