“Somebody has got hystierucks out of it, and I don’t blame him,” stated the manager of the show.  He grabbed the handle of the winch and began to let down the curtain.  “I reckon the only sensible thing to do is to let Brook Number One and Brook Number Two take the curtain call.”

Then Dorsey’s shrill insistence prevailed over the roars of laughter in front; the young folks on the stage heard his bloodcurdling bulletin.

The manager let slip the whirling handle and the pole of the hurrying curtain thumped the platform.  Vona had leaped, risking her life, and was able to dodge under the descending pole.  For a moment, sick with horror and unutterable woe, she stood there alone against the tawdry curtain, as wide-eyed and white-faced as Tragedy’s muse.

Men, women, and children, all the folks of Egypt, were struggling to their feet; the sliding settees squawked and clattered.

She saw Tasper Britt, fighting a path for himself, Starr following.  Britt’s face, above his blackened beard, was yellow-pale.

Panic was piling the people at the narrow rear doors; the weight of those who were rushing forward wedged all the mass at the exits.

“Vona!” called the manager, pulling at the edge of the curtain to give her passage.  “This way!  The side door.”

The summons helped to put away her faintness; her strength came back to her.  Her goal was the bank!  In the frenzy of her solicitude for her lover she took no thought of herself.

The others stopped to find their wraps.  Vona ran down the street as she was, bareheaded, the ribbons of her stage finery fluttering.  She was close behind the first arrivals at the open door of Britt Block.  All the other portals were wide open, bank door and grille door.  But the door of the vault was closed.

She thrust herself resolutely through the group of men and made a frenzied survey of the bank’s interior.  Her single quest was for Vaniman; he was nowhere in sight.  The books of account were open on the desk, mute evidence for her that he had been interrupted suddenly.

She voiced demands in shrill tones, but the men had no information for her.  She called his name wildly and there was no reply.

“I found the outside door open,” said Dorsey, raucously hoarse.  “I came in, and all was just as you see it.”

“But you said that he—­that Frank—­” Vona pressed her hands against her throat; she could not voice the terrible announcement that Dorsey had made.

“Well, if it ain’t that, what else is it?” insisted the watchman.

Then Tasper Britt arrived in the room, followed by the bank examiner; they entered, breathing heavily and running with the tread of Percherons.

“If it ain’t murder and robbery, what is it, Mr. Britt?” Dorsey bawled, evidently feeling the authority was then on the scene and was demanding report and action.

“I don’t know—­I don’t know!” the president quavered, staggering to the grille and clutching the wires with both hands in order to steady himself.  He was palpably, unmistakably stricken with a fear that was overpowering him.