"He was here a moment ago, ladies and gentlemen," he declared.
"Rats!" observed a disappointed lady in the gallery.
The manager redoubled his assurances. They had searched high and low, he said, but could not find Mr. Mow anywhere. Would the audience—
His speech was interrupted by the conductor of the orchestra.
"If Arfur Mow reelly 'asn't arrived," he announced, rising to his feet, "I'll give you a turn meself."
And bounding upon the stage, the conductor turned and faced the audience with a flourish. He was none other than the missing Arfur Mow! Having chased his apologist into the wings amid shouts of delight, the great man proceeded to the serious work of the evening—a ditty entitled:—"A Glorious Death; or, How I was Drowned in the Brewery."
"What is the next item?" enquired Mr. Mablethorpe in a hollow voice, after the audience and Mr. Mow had taken a reluctant farewell of one another. "The thumbscrew, or boiling oil?"
"'High Jinks in a Parisian Café,'" announced Sylvia with great satisfaction.
Mr. Mablethorpe coughed.
"Be prepared to read your programmes sedulously until further notice," he said to his wife and daughter.