No sooner had his head fallen into his hands than he felt himself borne aloft—spirally ascending to some giddy pinnacle, rising above and above the level of earthly clay.
He could not combat the forces at work—they were irresistible. He could only cling to the edges of the writing-table and wait—and, waiting, ascend. “And singing, ever soaring—and soaring as thou singest,” he quoted.
A frantic assistant stage-manager deserted the prompt corner and grasped Freddie Manning by the arm.
“The Guv-nor’s stuck on,” he gasped. “Ought to have been off half a minute ago. Looks as if he won’t move.”
Mr. Manning dived into the O.P., and took in the situation at a glance.
“Shall I ring down?” queried the A.S.M.
“No. Check your red arc in the fireplace. Here, you chaps,” he addressed the two burglars. “Go and pretend you don’t see him. Play the scene quiet, and just as you come off, spot him and use the life-preserver. Got it? Right away, then!”
He was Napoleonic in crises, was Mr. Manning. “One could always rely on Freddie,” was a byword in Cardomay’s company.
The two miscreants climbed noiselessly over the window-sill, just as the audience was beginning to find the Reverend Coles’ anguish a shade protracted; with panther steps they approached the safe, inserted the key and withdrew the incriminating papers.
And all the while Eliphalet clung on to the table and wondered where he was and what strange machinery was hoisting him heavenward. He solved the mystery at the exact moment the thieves had finished their work.