gallery. And, suddenly, coming to life with a single-minded
abruptness, the gallery ceased to be silent.

"Fire!"

Sir Chester Portwood, ploughing his way through a long speech,
stopped and looked apprehensively over his shoulder. The girl with
the lisp, who had been listening in a perfunctory manner to the long
speech, screamed loudly. The voice of an unseen stage-hand called
thunderously to an invisible "Bill" to cummere quick. And from the
scenery on the prompt side there curled lazily across the stage a
black wisp of smoke.

"Fire! Fire! Fire!"

"Just," said a voice at Jill's elbow, "what the play needed!" The
mysterious author was back in his seat again.



CHAPTER THREE


1.

In these days when the authorities who watch over the welfare of the
community have taken the trouble to reiterate encouragingly in
printed notices that a full house can be emptied in three minutes and
that all an audience has to do in an emergency is to walk, not run,
to the nearest exit, fire in the theatre has lost a good deal of its