The curtain had just risen on the last act when Mr. Gimball burst through the iron door and almost fell upon Eliphalet Cardomay, waiting in the wings.
“The cartridge factory next door is ablaze,” he gasped, “and the sparks are pouring down by the box-office. Drop the iron curtain and we’ll get the audience out.”
“At once!” assented Cardomay. “But wait a moment—if the stuff is falling outside, will they be able to pass?”
“God! I don’t know—I doubt it.”
“There are five minutes before my entrance. Take me somewhere where I can see—quickly.”
Mr. Gimball hurried him through the iron door and up some private stairs. At the end of a corridor they found a window, and looked down at the street below. Flames were pouring from the factory and the walls bulged dangerously.
“Useless,” said Eliphalet. “We must empty the house through the emergency exits.”
Then he remembered, and looked at Mr. Gimball with condemning eyes.
“I shall lose my licence for this,” muttered the manager hoarsely. “There’s only one way for it—we must pass them through the iron door and out across the stage.”
“You fool!” (It was most unusual for Eliphalet to say a thing like that.) “You fool! Pass three hundred people through a two-foot doorway? There’d be a panic—a horrible panic. We must clear those blocked exits, that’s all.”