And, with a shout of almost maniac laughter, the jealous artiste flung himself into a chair, and began to pull off his boots. Clarence silently withdrew. The hour was very near. Chapter 7 THE BIRD The Grand Duke Vodkakoff was not the man to let the grass grow under his feet. He was no lobster, no flat-fish. He did it now--swift, secret, deadly--a typical Muscovite. By midnight his staff had their orders. Those orders were for the stalls at the Lobelia. Price of entrance to the gallery and pit was served out at daybreak to the Eighth and Fifteenth Cossacks of the Don, those fierce, semi-civilised fighting-machines who know no fear. Grand Duke Vodkakoff's preparations were ready. * * * * * Few more fortunate events have occurred in the history of English literature than the quite accidental visit of Mr. Bart Kennedy to the Lobelia on that historic night. He happened to turn in there casually after dinner, and was thus enabled to see the whole thing from start to finish. At a quarter to eleven a wild-eyed man charged in at the main entrance of Carmelite House, and, too impatient to use the lift, dashed up the stairs, shouting for pens, ink and paper. Next morning the _Daily Mail_ was one riot of headlines. The whole of page five was given up to the topic. The headlines were not elusive. They flung the facts at the reader:-- SCENE AT THE LOBELIA PRINCE OTTO OF SAXE-PFENNIG GIVEN THE BIRD BY RUSSIAN SOLDIERS WHAT WILL BE THE OUTCOME? There were about seventeen more, and then came Mr. Bart Kennedy's special report. He wrote as follows:-- "A night to remember. A marvellous night. A night such as few will see again. A night of fear and wonder. The night of September the eleventh. Last night. "Nine-thirty. I had dined. I had eaten my dinner. My dinner! So inextricably are the prose and romance of life blended. My dinner! I had eaten my dinner on this night. This wonderful night. This night of September the eleventh. Last night! "I had dined at the club. A chop. A boiled potato. Mushrooms on toast. A touch of Stilton. Half-a-bottle of Beaune. I lay back in my chair. I debated within myself. A Hall? A theatre? A book in the library? That night, the night of September the eleventh, I as near as a toucher spent in the library of my club with a book. That night! The night of September the eleventh. Last night! "Fate took me to the Lobelia. Fate! We are its toys. Its footballs. We are the footballs of Fate. Fate might have sent me to the Gaiety. Fate took me to the Lobelia. This Fate which rules us. "I sent in my card to the manager. He let me through. Ever courteous. He let me through on my face. This manager. This genial and courteous manager. "I was in the Lobelia. A dead-head. I was in the Lobelia as a dead-head!"