Celia smilingly shook her head, and rising, surveyed herself in the long pier-glass. It was certainly a picturesque figure which met her gaze. Her dress with its long train of bejewelled cloth, fell in stately folds around her form, glittering and scintillating with every fresh ray of light. A silver belt of cunningly chased design adorned her waist, whilst her peculiar head-dress--a quaint kind of cap--set off to the best advantage the rich colouring of her hair. As she turned away, satisfied with the result of her dresser’s labours, she heard a foot-fall in the stone passage. Then, without knocking, and in evident agitation, Grace Haviland stumbled into the room. She was breathless and excited, and dropped on to a chair with an air of exhaustion. Clutched in her grasp were two of the evening papers and an unopened telegram. Instantly Celia divined that something had happened. “What is it, Grace?” she asked, with apprehension. “Is anything wrong?” Miss Haviland nodded, but for the moment was unable to speak. “This telegram came directly you were gone,” she panted, as soon as she had recovered her breath. “I wouldn’t have troubled about it, only there was something in the evening paper which told me it was of importance. I thought you ought to know at once, so that’s why I’ve rushed here. I have not seen Guy yet: I think he is with Mr. Calhoun at the wings. Perhaps they will be angry when they know I’ve told you, but I thought it cruel not to let you know.” Celia took the telegram, and tore it open. Then she uttered a little cry. “Mr. Karne met with a serious accident. Come at once.--HIGGINS.” And then she caught sight of the head-line of the newspaper column, “Attempted murder of Herbert Karne, R.A.;” and underneath, in smaller type, “The assailant a raving madman.” For the moment she thought she must surely be the victim of nightmare. She rubbed her eyes, as though expecting her surroundings to float away and to find herself in her bedroom at Acacia Road. But, unfortunately, it was no nightmare; it was stern reality. There, unmistakably, was the dressing-room with her stage-dresses hung upon the walls, and all her stage-belongings strewn round the room. There also, was the dresser, looking startled and bewildered as she stood with her arms akimbo, and Grace Haviland, pale and agitated, hating to be the bearer of such bad news. And worst of all, there were the horrible words staring her in the face: _Attempted murder_. Suddenly the electric bell announcing the ring-up of the curtain resounded through the building. The sound recalled Celia to the present exigence, and with a shudder she leant against the table.