Probably Mr. Bryan realised that Raeburn would drop a brick, so without giving him time to refuse he gracefully accepted the invitation on behalf of both. And when Eliphalet had wished them “Good night” and departed, he said: “We’d insulted him quite enough, my dear fellow; we should have been inexcusably rude to have said ‘No.’” “A silly old gas-bag,” smiled Raeburn. “We’ll go, then. Anything for a laugh.” Next day, and the one following, Eliphalet Cardomay and his stage-manager, Freddie Manning, worked at the battle-scene like grim death. The artillery practice achieved with drums of different notes and a develine whistle was a triumph of realism. A stern suggestion of machine gunnery was contrived by the use of an archaic police rattle, opportunely unearthed from a neighbouring junk shop. For the mining of the gate a large cistern was salvaged from a rubbish-heap and two maroons were placed inside and fired simultaneously. “Manning,” exclaimed Eliphalet gleefully, “it is tremendous! Now, just once more, and we’ll leave it at that.” On his way back to the hotel he chanced to meet Captain Raeburn, who was swinging a cane in Broaden Street. “We shall surprise you to-night,” he said, by way of greeting, and passed on, chuckling. The Grand Theatre, Wadley, was situated at the top end of a short blind road, standing back from Broaden Street. The stage-door and emergency exits, which, it will be remembered, were blocked with scenery, opened on a narrow thoroughfare at the back. Approaching the box-office, one passed Messrs. Felder & Syme’s Small Arms and Cartridge factory. Behind them, and separated only by a ten-foot wall, one of the many urban gasometers rose and fell in response to the city’s consumption. Friday night in Wadley was always the best for business. It was then the “good people” patronised the drama, and Mr. Gimball, the manager, was wont to make special efforts for their better comfort. On Friday there were extra members in the orchestra. On Friday there was red cloth on the front steps. On Friday all the electric light points burnt gaily in the big lustre chandelier above the auditorium, and woe betide the programme-girl that failed to appear in her whitest and newest apron upon that night of nights. When the returns were brought to Eliphalet Cardomay at the close of the second act, he was agreeably pleased. “We’ve a fine audience for our new battle,” he observed, “and the play is going well.” Captain Raeburn sat back in his box, the picture of misery. “Look here,” he remonstrated, “that fellow Cardomay is awful. How about slipping quietly away?” But Mr. Bryan would not hear of it.