"I tell you I was quite dumfoundered—" "And she said nothing about any news—or her prospects—or a change——?" "Nothing. From what she said, I gathered that she had come to dislike acting, and that she was convinced her future career would be wretched, both for herself and the house. You have never asked me about the theatre at all. The first two or three nights the curiosity of people to see her in the new part gave us some good business; but now the papers have changed their tune, and the public——" Mr. Melton shrugged his shoulders; but Count Schönstein was paying no attention to him. "_If she has discovered the secret,_" he was reasoning with himself, "_she would be in no such desperate hurry to leave the stage. If she has not, now is the time for me._" "Melton," he said, "what would be a reasonable forfeit if she broke her engagement?" "I don’t know. I should say 200*l*. She said she could not offer me compensation in money, and that’s why she begged so hard of me for the favour. God knows, if I could afford it, and were my own master, I should not make the poor creature keep to her engagement. Look at the money she used to put into the treasury every week." "Very good. Come downstairs to your room; I want to transact some business with you." When they had gone down to the stage and passed through the wings to Mr. Melton’s private room, both men sate down in front of a table on which were writing materials. "Take a sheet of paper, like a good fellow," said the Count, "and write to my dictation." Melton took the pen in his hand, and the Count continued— "_My dear Miss Brunel,—In consideration of your past services, and of the great success attending_—should that be attendant, Melton?—_upon your previous labours in this theatre, I beg to offer you entire liberty to break your present engagement, at whatever time you please.—Yours sincerely, Charles Melton._" "And what do you propose to do with that, Count?" said Melton, with a smile. "I propose to give you this bit of paper for it," said the Count. He handed the manager an _I.O.U._ for 200*l.*; and then carefully folded up the letter and put it in his pocket. CHAPTER XXVII. DOUBTFUL. Without taking off either bonnet or cloak, Annie Brunel, on reaching home that night, went at once to Mrs. Christmas’s room, and flung herself down on the edge of the bed where the poor old woman lay, ailing and languid. "Oh, mother, mother," cried the girl, "I can never go to the theatre any more!" She buried her face in the bed-clothes, and only stretched out her hand for sympathy. The old woman tried to put her arm round the girl’s neck, but relinquished the attempt with a sigh. "What is to become of us, Miss Annie?" "I don’t know—I don’t know," she said, almost wildly, "and why should I care any longer?" "What new trouble is this that has fallen on us?" said Mrs. Christmas, faintly. "Why do you speak like that?"