That same evening at nine-thirty, in the interval between her first and second “going on,” Gladys hastened to her dressing-room, and was preparing to partake of the light refreshments she had ordered, when—­to her horror—­she perceived crawling towards her, across the floor, a huge cockroach—­a hideous black thing with spidery legs and long antennae that it waved, to and fro, in the air, as it advanced.  It was at least double the size of any Gladys had hitherto seen, and her feelings can best be appreciated by those who fear such things—­her blood ran cold, her flesh crawled, she sat glued to her chair, terrified to move, lest it should run after her.  She screamed, and her dresser, startled out of her senses, came flying into the room.

“What is it, madam?  What is it?” she cried.

Gladys pointed at the floor.

“Kill it!” she shrieked.  “Stamp on it!  Oh, quick, quick, it is coming towards me.”

But the moment the dresser caught sight of the cockroach, she sprang on a chair and wound her skirts round her.

“Oh, madam,” she panted, “I daren’t!  I daren’t go near it.  I’m frightened out of my life, at beetles.  And there’s another of them”—­and she pointed to the wainscoting—­“and another!  Why, the room’s full of them!”

And so it was.  Everywhere Gladys looked she saw beetles crawling towards her—­dozens upon dozens, hundreds upon hundreds—­and all of the same monstrous size and ultra-horrible appearance.

“Look!” she screamed.  “They are climbing on to my clothes.  One’s got into my shoes, and another will be in them, in a second.  There’s another—­crawling up my cloak—­and another on my skirt.  Oh!  Oh!” and her cries, and those of the dresser, speedily brought a troop of actors and actresses to the door.  The instant, however, the cause of the alarm was ascertained, there were loud yells, and a wild stampede down the passages.  The Stage Manager was called, but one glance at the floor was enough for him—­he fled.  And in the end three of the supers had to be fetched.  Hot water, brooms, ashes, and quicklime were used, and although thousands of the cockroaches were killed, thousands more came, and so hopeless did the task of getting rid of them become, that the room eventually had to be vacated, and the cracks under the door securely sealed.

Before Gladys left the theatre, she was called on the telephone.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Hamar,” came the reply, in insinuating tones.  “How do you like the beetles?  You’ll never see the end of them till—­”

But Gladys rang off.