"The vessel?" echoed the Major, incredulous yet. "What vessel?"
"As if to omit no detail of horror, she is called, I believe, the Vesuvius bomb. Phoebus, what a name!"
It drummed for some seconds in the Major's ear like an echo.
"Yes, yes… the theatre," he murmured.
"The theatre? You were in the theatre? Then you saw me?"
"I beg your pardon."
"Me—Orlando B. Sturge. Yes, sir, if it be any consolation to you, know that I, Orlando B. Sturge, of the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, am your temporary partner in adversity, your co-mate and brother in exile, with the added indignity of handcuffs; and all by an error which would be absurd if it weren't so infernally serious."
"There has been some horrible mistake."
"A mistake, sir, for which these caitiffs shall pay dearly," Mr. Sturge promised in his deepest tragedy voice.
"A Justice of the Peace!"