“’Opped it!” replied the other briefly, and coughed raspingly as he swallowed smoke.
“Strange,” said the man in Jill’s ear, as he pulled her along. “This way. Stick to me. Strange how the drama anticipates life! At the end of act two there was a scene where Sir Chester had to creep sombrely out into the night, and now he’s gone and done it! Ah!”
They had stumbled through a doorway and were out in a narrow passage, where the air, though tainted, was comparatively fresh. Jill drew a deep breath. Her companion turned to the stage-hand and felt in his pocket.
“Here, Rollo!” A coin changed hands. “Go and get a drink. You need it after all this.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t mention it. You’ve saved our lives. Suppose you hadn’t come up and told us, and we had never noticed there was a fire! Charred bones, believed to be those of a man and a woman, were found in the ruined edifice!”
He turned to Jill. “Here’s the stage-door. Shall we creep sombrely out into the night?”
The guardian of the stage-door was standing in the entrance of his little hutch, plainly perplexed. He was a slow thinker and a man whose life was ruled by routine: and the events of the evening had left him uncertain how to act.
“Wot’s all this about a fire?” he demanded.
Jill’s friend stopped.