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."