arther down town when he finished the article, only
to find that it was a carefully worded advertisement for a new patent
medicine, and of course he had not time to return. "Oh, well," said
he, "I'll get them when I go up town to-night."

But he did not. So with fear in his heart and a red-faced woman on his
arm he approached the box-office. "Not a seat left," sounded to his
hen-pecked ears like the concluding words of the black-robed judge:
"and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul." But a reprieve came, for
one of the aforesaid beacon lights of hope rushed forward, saying: "I
have two good seats, not far back, and only ten apiece." And the
gentleman with fear in his heart and the red-faced woman on his arm
passed in.

They saw the largest crowd in the history of the Academy. Every seat
was occupied, every foot of standing room taken. Chairs were placed in
the side aisles. The programs announced that it was the second
appearance in America of Angelo Diotti, the renowned Tuscan violinist.

The orchestra had perfunctorily ground out the overture to "Der
Freischuetz," the baritone had stentorianly emitted "Dio Possente,"
the soprano was working her way through the closing measures of the
mad scene from "Lucia," and Diotti was number four on the program. The
conductor stood beside his platform, ready to ascend as Diotti
appeared.

The audience, ever ready to act when those on the stage cease that
occupation, gave a splendid imitation of the historic last scene at
the Tower of Babel. Having accomplished this to its evident
satisfaction, the audience proceeded, like the closing phrase of the
"Goetterdaemmerung" Dead March, to become exceedingly quiet--then
expectant.

This expectancy lasted fully three minutes. Then there were some
impatient handclappings. A few persons whispered: "Why is he late?"
"Why doesn't he come?" "I wonder where Diotti is," and then came
unmistakable signs of impatience. At its height Perkins appeared,
hesitatingly. Nervous and jerky he walked to the center of the stage,
and raised his hand begging silence. The audience was stilled.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he falteringly said, "Signor Diotti left his
hotel at seven o'clock and was driven to the Academy. The call-boy
rapped at his dressing-room, and not receiving a reply, opened the
door to find the room empty. We have despatched searchers in every
direction and have sent out a police alarm. We fear some accident has
befallen the Signor. We