The day before that on which Cyril reached Vindobona was a holiday at the gasworks. The furnaces were allowed to grow cold, the retorts remained uncharged, the gas-holders empty, and as soon as the small amount of gas in reserve had been consumed, every jet in the city, after flickering precariously for a time, went out. Summer had passed its prime, and the evenings were drawing in, but the heat was still intense, and the citizens were enjoying themselves in their brilliantly lighted public gardens. On this particular evening the brilliance was somewhat to seek, and there were many complaints even before the moment at which all became darkness. An Anarchist plot was the first thought, and an irresistible panic seized the crowds of pleasure-seekers. Some rushed wildly hither and thither, others waited tremblingly in the stupefaction of terror. It was some time before even the police could collect their wits sufficiently to inquire into the mystery. At length, by the joint exercise of persuasion and moral force, as typified by the erection of temporary lights at the street-corners, and the employment of cavalry to disperse the crowds, they induced the populace to seek their homes, and a commission of inquiry was despatched post-haste to the gasworks. The explanation afforded by the few melancholy officials in charge was a simple one. Owing to the persistent machinations of its enemies, the company’s dues had been withheld from it, so that it was unable to procure coal for conversion into gas. Its whole reserve stock had been worked up, and prompt financial aid alone could enable it to obtain more. The honourable officials of police had better apply to the municipality. But the municipal gasworks, the police were well aware, would not be in working order, even if operations were carried on both day and night, for a fortnight at least, and it was impossible to contemplate the horror of a gas-famine lasting for that period. Hence the appearance of the Imperial chamberlain at the station to meet Cyril and convey him in a Court carriage to the Schloss, whither the Chevalier Goldberg had already been summoned; and hence also the furious mob assembled in the street outside, howling for the destruction of the Jews and the division of their property among the burgesses of Vindobona. Just as Cyril reached the carriage with his conductor, his servant Dietrich, who had been looking after the luggage, stepped up to him. “Excellency,” he said hurriedly, “there is a riot. You cannot pass through the streets in safety.” “I am not deaf,” said Cyril coldly--then, turning to the chamberlain with a smile, “My man is an old servant, and privileged, but I don’t feel obliged to humour him in everything.”