“A duel, Madam? Five, to my certain knowledge,” asseverated the Beau. “And all with more or less serious results.” “Pshaw, ’tis like an Italian tale of the evil eye!” Nan shuddered. “I’ll not go to Drury Lane and come under it, ’tis pos! _Pray, Miss Pounce? Oh, no, not green! Green! Am I never to get away from it?_” * * * * * Miss Falcon’s fame did not suffer from the double tragedy of which she had been so singularly the cause. She withdrew from the programmes for a week after the funerals of the two unfortunate noblemen, and then reappeared, to play to houses more crowded, more enthusiastic than ever. The wild rumours which began to circulate about her only served to increase the public frenzy. Pamela Pounce, much occupied with the Walsingham mourning, was for some time unable to gratify her desire to see Fair Fatality act once more; a desire which--so far was she from sharing Lady Anne Day’s fears--had now indeed become a kind of obsession. When circumstances permitted her at last to indulge herself, she purchased a ticket in the forefront of the gallery, and prepared to enjoy a couple of hours complicated emotion. To her amazement, at the end of the second act a note was handed to her: “_I have just seen your kind face. Will you be a Friend to me to-night, and come back with me to my house? If you can do me this favour--my heart tells me you will--meet me at the stage door after the last act._ “FELICITY FALCON.” At any time the adventure was one likely to tempt a girl of Pamela’s spirit. In present circumstances, wrought to the highest pitch of excitement and interest by the emotions of the drama and the personality of the young play-actress, the invitation came to her as the magic fulfilment of a dream. Although never had Miss Falcon’s acting been more poignant, more intense in passion and tragedy, the milliner could hardly wait for the drop of the curtain, so eager was she to enter upon what she could not avoid considering the more thrilling drama still. The crowds that packed the theatre were so immense, and the determination to recall the favourite so obstinate and prolonged, that it was after considerable delay that Pamela found herself at last at the stage door. An elegant, sober-looking carriage, with servants in dark liveries, stood in waiting, and just behind it a hackney coach. Miss Falcon, hooded and cloaked, escorted by a group of gentlemen, stepped forward and took her hand. “I knew you would come,” she whispered. Her manner was preoccupied. “This is no place for introductions,” she went on, turning to her escort. “Since it must be, let us even start.” “Sheridan,” said one who walked in advance of the others, one, indeed, whom the milliner, with a thumping heart, scarce dared recognise as the heir to the throne, “you accompany the ladies.”