Levi Schomberg, meanwhile, remained seated in the box. Bent forward, and resting against the velvet balustrade, he appeared to be gazing at the crowded floor. None noticed him, apparently, but Preston and George Blenkiron, whose complete attention he now held.
“Strange,” Blenkiron said at last, “how motionless he is. He has not stirred for fully five minutes.”
They went on looking. When some more minutes had passed, and the figure still remained motionless, Preston linked his friend’s arm in his own.
“Let us go and see if he is ill,” he said. “I am sure something is amiss with him.”
They went up the staircase and round to the back of the boxes until they reached the box they sought. The door was shut. After knocking several times, and receiving no answer, they went in search of the attendant.
“There is a gentleman alone in Box Thirteen,” Preston said, “who appears to be ill. We have knocked repeatedly, but can get no reply.”
“A friend of yours?” the attendant inquired.
“We know him, yes.”
The Jazz band was blaring still as Preston and Blenkiron passed into the box, closely followed by the attendant. They spoke Schomberg’s name, but he did not reply. Then they went over to him, and Blenkiron put a hand upon his shoulder.
Still he made no response. Now thoroughly on the alert Preston stripped off Schomberg’s mask, then jumped back with a start.