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.

"He was here when the pistol was fired--at this box, my friend, as the
bullet will testify." He pointed to the mark on the enamelled panel
behind. "When the lights came he had gone--that is all."

"He can't have gone," said T. B. shortly. "The theatre is surrounded. I
have a warrant for his arrest."

A cry from the girl stopped him. She was white and shaking.

"Arrest!" she gasped, "on what charge?"

"On a charge of being concerned with one Gorth in burglary at the
Docks--and with an attempted murder."

"Gorth!" cried the girl, vehemently. "If any man is guilty, it is
Gorth--that evil man----"

"Speak softly of the dead," said T. B. gently. "Mr. Gorth, as I have
every reason to believe, received wounds from which he died. Perhaps you
can enlighten me, Poltavo?"

But the Count could only spread deprecating hands.

T. B. went out into the corridor. There was an emergency exit to the
street, but the door was closed. On the floor he found a glove, on the
door itself the print of a bloody hand.

But there was no sign of Farrington.

CHAPTER VII

Two days later, at the stroke of ten, Frank Doughton sprang from his
taxi in front of the office of the _Evening Times_.

He stood for a moment,