There was a hoarse, solid detonation, followed by a splutter of little reports and the sharp stink of gunpowder filled the auditorium. Some ladies in the stalls moved restively, and complained it was too realistic. In the gallery a girl shrieked, and some boys mocked her with their laughter. Eliphalet Cardomay was sitting on the window-sill, lighting a fresh cigarette. “Well done, lads,” he cried to his imaginary forces below. “A few more like that, and we——” Crash! A great piece of the factory wall fell noisily into the yard, and the released flames poured out toward the gasometer. Eliphalet could feel the sweat breaking out upon his forehead. He almost prayed for that devastating flash which would end the charade. But a gentle wind took the matter in hand and fanned the tongues of flame away. De—dinga—longa—longalong. De—dong—along—along. The engines were coming. He had forgotten the possibility of that sound and the message of terror it might convey to the audience. If the truth leaked out there would be a panic. They would find the front of the theatre impassable, and battle with each other in the blocked exits. So he burst into a great shout of laughter. “Some idiot is ringing the fire bell!” he shouted. “Ha! the fool. Come, Weldon; don’t you see the joke? Laugh, man; laugh!” “I can’t make this out,” Raeburn was saying. “Wait here a minute. I am going to see.” He slipped from the box and ran down a deserted corridor. On his left he heard the sound of men’s voices and the moving of heavy objects. He pushed open a door labelled “Extra Exit” and found Manning with a crowd of furiously working actors and stage hands humping large scene flats into the street at the back. They worked as though their very lives depended upon it. “What’s up?” demanded Raeburn. Freddie Manning scarcely looked in his direction, but he jerked out: “Get away and keep your mouth shut.” Raeburn took the hint, and made his way to the box-office. The road outside was blocked with fallen débris and mantled in a smother of smoke. It cleared for a second, long enough to show him half a dozen engines farther down, with brass-helmeted firemen busy paying out the hose. Clinging to one of the theatre pillars was the night-watchman—a shivering wreck of what so short a time before had been a fine connoisseur of dinner ale. “There’s thousands o’ rounds up there,” he dithered, pointing at the still-to-catch top storey. “And if they don’t set off the gas-works, may I never touch another pint.” Then Captain Raeburn understood many things, and he returned to his box to watch the man he had belittled deal with emergency.