“It may have been kicked further along,” suggested another attendant.  She walked up and down the row looking for it, and, in case somebody had kicked it into the row above, walked up and down that one too; and, in case somebody had found touch with it on the other side of the house, many other girls spread themselves in pursuit; and soon we had the whole pack hunting for it.

Then the fireman came up, suspecting the worst.  I told him it was even worse than that—­my hat had been stolen.

He had a flash of inspiration.

“Are you sure you brought it with you?” he asked.

The programme girls seemed to think that it would solve the whole mystery if I hadn’t brought it with me.

“Are you sure you are the fireman?” I said coldly.

He thought for a moment, and then unburdened himself of another idea.

“Perhaps it’s just been kicked under the seat,” he said.

I left him under the seat and went downstairs with a heavy heart.  At the door I said to the hall porter, “Have you seen anybody going out with two hats by mistake?”

“What’s the matter?” he said.  “Lost your hat?”

“It has been stolen.”

“Have you looked under the seats?  It may have been kicked along a bit.”

“Perhaps I’d better see the manager,” I said.  “Is it any good looking under the seats for him?”

“I expect it’s just been kicked along a bit,” the hall porter repeated confidently.  “I’ll come up with you and look for it.”

“If there’s any more talk about being kicked along a bit,” I said bitterly, “somebody will be.  I want the manager.”

I was led to the manager’s room, and there I explained the matter to him.  He was very pleasant about it.

“I expect you haven’t looked for it properly,” he said, with a charming smile.  “Just take this gentleman up,” he added to the hall porter, “and find his hat for him.  It has probably been kicked under one of the other seats.”

We were smiled irresistibly out, and I was dragged up to the grand circle again.  The seats by this time were laid out in white draperies; the house looked very desolate; I knew that my poor hat was dead.  With an air of cheery confidence the hall porter turned into the first row of seats....

“It may have been kicked on to the stage,” I said, as he began to slow down.  “It may have jumped into one of the boxes.  It may have turned into a rabbit.  You know, I expect you aren’t looking for it properly.”

The manager was extremely sympathetic when we came back to him.  He said, “Oh, I’m sorry.”  Just like that—­“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“My hat,” I said firmly, “has been stolen.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated with a bored smile, and turned to look at himself in the glass.

Then I became angry with him and his attendants and his whole blessed theatre.

“My hat,” I said bitingly, “has been stolen from me—­while I slept.”