A flash of lightning flickered over Panton Street as the immortal four moved stealthily in that direction.
Among the first to enter Her Majesty’s Theatre on the night with which we are concerned were Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan. Porthos flung three pistoles into the box-office, and demanded four seats near the stage, while the clerk in charge regarded the coins with some suspicion.
“They are each worth sixteen English shillings,” said D’Artagnan shortly.
“Then I shall want another of them if you require a box,” replied the young man.
Porthos produced the money, and soon the four friends were comfortably seated in a stage-box.
“It is well,” said Athos. “From this place we may make our voices heard among the players, and work our will without shedding of blood; at least, it may be permitted to hope so.”
“Let me see,” answered Porthos; “what lies before us?”
“’Tis simple. We must put a stop to the performance, and we must secure the person of Sydney Grundy. One does not wish to slay him here in a place of entertainment; but he must be captured and removed,” declared Aramis. “We may safely leave that task to D’Artagnan.”
With increasing interest the warriors regarded the incoming audience, and marvelled at the changes Time had wrought upon human costume.