The double chorus proceeded, and then a certain excitement was visible on the stage, and the conductor made signs with his left hand.

“Smart, what’s wrong? Where’s Alresca?” It was Sullivan who spoke.

“He’ll sail in all right,” Sir Cyril said calmly. “Don’t worry.”

The renowned impresario had advanced nearer to the front of our box, and was standing immediately behind my chair. My heart was beating violently with apprehension under my shirt-front. Where was Alresca? It was surely impossible that he should fail to appear! But he ought to have been on the stage, and he was not on the stage. I stole a glance at Sir Cyril’s face. It was Napoleonic in its impassivity.