At two o'clock in the morning Crayford was still smoking, still watching, still shouting. Charmian and Alston were still in the darkness of the box, gazing, listening, sometimes talking. They had not seen Claude again. If he came into the front of the theater they meant to call him. But he did not come. The hours had flown, and now, when Alston looked at his watch and told Charmian the time, she could scarcely believe him. "Where can Claude be?" "I'll go behind." "Jimber!" roared Mr. Crayford. "Where is Jimber?" Mr. Mulworth, who looked now as if he had lain awake in his clothes for more nights than he cared to remember, rushed upon the stage almost fanatically. "The locusts are all in one corner!" shouted Crayford. "What's the use of that? They must spread." "Spread your locusts!" bawled Mr. Mulworth. He lifted both his arms in a semaphore movement, which he continued until it seemed as if his physical mechanism had escaped from the control of his brain. "Spread your locusts, Jimber!" he wailed. "Spread! Spread! I tell you--spread your locusts!" He vanished, always moving his arms. His voice died away in the further regions. Charmian was alone. She had nodded in reply to Alston's remark. To-night she felt rather anxious about Claude. She could not entirely rid her mind of the remembrance of him crossing under the light, looking unnatural, ghastly, like a persecuted man. And now that she was alone she felt as if she were haunted. Eager to be reassured, she fixed her eyes on the keen figure, the resolute face, of Mr. Crayford. The power of work in Americans was almost astounding, she thought. All the men with whom she and Claude had had anything to do seemed to be working all the time, unresting as waves driven by a determined wind. Keenness! That was the characteristic of this marvellous city, this marvellous land. And it had acted upon her almost like electricity. She had felt charged with it. It would be terrible to fail before a nation that worshipped success, that looked for it with resolute piercing eyes.