It was rung up fifteen times, and fifteen times the quartette of artists, breathless, bowed in acknowledgment of the frenzied and boisterous testimony to their unique talents.  No singer, no tragedian, no comedian, no wit could have had such a triumph, could have given such intense pleasure.  And yet none of the four had spoken a word.  Such is genius.

At the end of the fifteenth call the stage-manager came before the curtain and guaranteed that two thousand four hundred plates had been broken.

The lights went up.  Strong men were seen to be wiping tears from their eyes.  Complete strangers were seen addressing each other in the manner of old friends.  Such is art.

“Well, that was worth a bob, that was!” muttered Edward Henry to himself.  And it was.  Edward Henry had not escaped the general fate.  Nobody, being present, could have escaped it.  He was enchanted.  He had utterly forgotten every care.

“Good evening, Mr. Machin,” said a voice at his side.  Not only he turned but nearly everyone in the vicinity turned.  The voice was the voice of the stout and splendid managing director of the Empire, and it sounded with the ring of authority above the rising tinkle of the bar behind the Grand Circle.

“Oh!  How d’ye do, Mr. Dakins?” Edward Henry held out a cordial hand, for even the greatest men are pleased to be greeted in a place of entertainment by the managing director thereof.  Further, his identity was now recognized.

“Haven’t you seen those gentlemen in that box beckoning to you?” said Mr. Dakins, proudly deprecating complimentary remarks on the show.

“Which box?”

Mr. Dakins’ hand indicated a stage-box.  And Henry, looking, saw three men, one unknown to him, the second, Robert Brindley, the architect, of Bursley, and the third, Dr. Stirling.

Instantly his conscience leapt up within him.  He thought of rabies.  Yes, sobered in the fraction of a second, he thought of rabies.  Supposing that, after all, in spite of Mr. Long’s Muzzling Order, as cited by his infant son, an odd case of rabies should have lingered in the British Isles, and supposing that Carlo had been infected ...!  Not impossible ...!  Was it providential that Dr. Stirling was in the auditorium?

“You know two of them?” said Mr. Dakins.

“Yes.”

“Well, the third’s a Mr. Bryany.  He’s manager to Mr. Seven Sachs.”  Mr. Dakins’ tone was respectful.

“And who’s Mr. Seven Sachs?” asked Edward Henry, absently.  It was a stupid question.

He was impressively informed that Mr. Seven Sachs was the arch-famous American actor-playwright, now nearing the end of a provincial tour, which had surpassed all records of provincial tours, and that he would be at the Theatre Royal, Hanbridge, next week.  Edward Henry then remembered that the hoardings had been full of Mr. Seven Sachs for some time past.

“They keep on making signs to you,” said Mr. Dakins, referring to the occupants of the stage-box.