"Well," she said in answer to his nod, "that was Mr. Gorth's idea of literature. Uncle would never have the paper in his house, but whenever you saw Mr. Gorth--he invariably waited for uncle in the kitchen--you would be sure to find him chuckling over some of the horrid things which that paper published. Uncle used to get more angry about this than anything else, Mr. Gorth took a delight in all the unpleasant things which this wretched little paper printed. I have heard it said that he had something to do with its publication; but when I spoke to uncle about it, he was rather cross with me for thinking such a thing." Poltavo was conscious that the eyes of Farrington were searching his face narrowly, and out of the corner of his eye he noted the obvious disapproval. He turned round carelessly. "An admirable sight--a London theatre crowd." "Very," said the millionaire, drily. "Celebrities on every hand--Montague Fallock, for instance, is here." Farrington nodded. "And that wise-looking young man in the very end seat of the fourth row--he is in the shadow, but you may see him." "T. B. Smith," said Farrington, shortly. "I have seen him--I have seen everybody but----" "But----?" "The occupant of the royal box. She keeps in the shadow all the time. She is not a detective, too, I suppose?" he asked, sarcastically. He looked round. Frank Doughton, his niece and Lady Dinsmore were engrossed in conversation. "Poltavo," he said, dropping his voice, "I want to know who that woman is in the opposite box--I have a reason." The orchestra was playing a soft intermezzo, and of a sudden the lights went down in the house, hushed to silence as the curtain went slowly up upon the second act. There was a shifting of chairs to distribute the view, a tense moment of silence as the chorus came down a rocky defile and then--a white pencil of flame shot out from the royal box and a sharp crash of a pistol report. "My God!" gasped Mr. Farrington, and staggered back. There was a loud babble of voices, a stentorian voice from the back of the stalls shouted, "House lights--quick!" The curtain fell as the house was bathed in the sudden glare of lights. T. B. saw the flash and leapt for the side aisle: two steps and he was at the door which led to the royal box. It was empty. He passed quickly through the retiring room--empty also, but the private entrance giving on to the street was open and the fog was drifting through in great wreaths. He stepped out into the street and blew a shrill whistle. Instantly from the gloom came a plain clothes policeman--No, he had seen nobody pass. T. B. went back to the theatre, raced round to the box opposite and found it in confusion. "Where is Mr. Farrington?" he asked, quickly. He addressed his remark to Poltavo. "He is gone," said the other, with a shrug.