Jill followed him across the stage. Her heart was beating violently.
There was not only smoke now, but heat. Across the stage little
scarlet flames were shooting, and something large and hard, unseen
through the smoke, fell with a crash. The air was heavy with the
smell of burning paint.

"Where's Sir Portwood Chester?" enquired her companion of the
stage-hand, who hurried beside them.

"'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