No one stirred. A woman began to sob. A fat, unhealthy-looking man in front of Francis reeled over in a dead faint. Two other of the guests near had risen from their seats and were shouting aimlessly like lunatics. Even Francis was conscious of that temporary imprisonment of the body due to his lacerated nerves. Only the clinging of Lady Cynthia to his arm kept him from rushing from the spot. “You are faint?” he whispered hoarsely. “Upstairs--air,” she faltered. They rose to their feet. The sound of Sir Timothy's voice reached them as they ascended the stairs. “On deck, every one, if you please,” he insisted. “Refreshments are being served there. There are inquisitive people who watch my launch, and it is inadvisable to remain here long.” People hurried out then as though their one desire was to escape from the scene of the tragedy. Lady Cynthia, still clinging to Francis' arm, led him to the furthermost corner of the launch. There were real tears in her eyes, her breath was coming in little sobs. “Oh, it was horrible!” she cried. “Horrible! Mr. Ledsam--I can't help it--I never want to speak to Sir Timothy again!” One final horror arrested for a moment the sound of voices. There was a dull splash in the river. Something had been thrown overboard. The orchestra began to play dance music. Conversation suddenly burst out. Every one was hysterical. A Peer of the Realm, red-eyed and shaking like an aspen leaf, was drinking champagne out of the bottle. Every one seemed to be trying to outvie the other in loud conversation, in outrageous mirth. Lady Isabel, with a glass of champagne in her hand, leaned back towards Francis. “Well,” she asked, “how are you feeling, Mr. Ledsam?” “As though I had spent half-an-hour in Hell,” he answered. She screamed with laughter. “Hear this man,” she called out, “who will send any poor ragamuffin to the gallows if his fee is large enough! Of course,” she added, turning back to him, “I ought to remember you are a normal person and to-night's entertainment was not for normal persons. For myself I am grateful to Sir Timothy. For a few moments of this aching aftermath of life, I forgot.” Suddenly all the lights around the launch flamed out, the music stopped. Sir Timothy came up on deck. On either side of him was a man in ordinary dinner clothes. The babel of voices ceased. Everyone was oppressed by some vague likeness. A breathless silence ensued. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Sir Timothy said, and once more the smile upon his lips assumed its most mocking curve, “let me introduce you to the two artists who have given us to-night such a realistic performance, Signor Guiseppe Elito and Signor Carlos Marlini. I had the good fortune,” he went on, “to witness this very marvellous performance in a small music-hall at Palermo, and I was able to induce the two actors to pay us a visit over here. Steward, these gentlemen will take a glass of champagne.”