Now when the wicked lady left the stage, on this particular night, Eliphalet was perfectly clear about what he had to do. It was the author’s intention he should stagger to his writing-table—and stagger he did, most realistically. He supported himself with one hand and switched off the table lamp with the other, leaving the stage in darkness, save for the crimson rays from the fireplace, which encarmined his form during the few moments of grief and prayer before his exit. With the reduction of the light Eliphalet experienced a totally unlooked-for sensation in his head—a dizziness, a vertigo. He sank into the chair and buried his face, and then—— I would not dream of suggesting any reader of this story would be likely to have personal knowledge of the sensations which sudden darkness brings to persons who have over-stepped the margins of sobriety. I am credibly informed, however, by contrite, but experienced authorities, that peculiar and various illusions occur. As a general rule, either the floor comes up, or the ceiling descends, and this with a rotary and oscillating motion. So long as the darkness prevails there is no escape for the unhappy sufferer, and, strange to say, he is seldom wise enough to escape from the darkness. Eliphalet Cardomay had not been drinking. On the other hand, who but an analyst could say what potent drugs went to the manufacture of Enoch’s Instantaneous? No sooner had his head fallen into his hands than he felt himself borne aloft—spirally ascending to some giddy pinnacle, rising above and above the level of earthly clay. He could not combat the forces at work—they were irresistible. He could only cling to the edges of the writing-table and wait—and, waiting, ascend. “And singing, ever soaring—and soaring as thou singest,” he quoted. A frantic assistant stage-manager deserted the prompt corner and grasped Freddie Manning by the arm. “The Guv-nor’s stuck on,” he gasped. “Ought to have been off half a minute ago. Looks as if he won’t move.” Mr. Manning dived into the O.P., and took in the situation at a glance. “Shall I ring down?” queried the A.S.M. “No. Check your red arc in the fireplace. Here, you chaps,” he addressed the two burglars. “Go and pretend you don’t see him. Play the scene quiet, and just as you come off, spot him and use the life-preserver. Got it? Right away, then!” He was Napoleonic in crises, was Mr. Manning. “One could always rely on Freddie,” was a byword in Cardomay’s company. The two miscreants climbed noiselessly over the window-sill, just as the audience was beginning to find the Reverend Coles’ anguish a shade protracted; with panther steps they approached the safe, inserted the key and withdrew the incriminating papers. And all the while Eliphalet clung on to the table and wondered where he was and what strange machinery was hoisting him heavenward. He solved the mystery at the exact moment the thieves had finished their work.