was applied was being slapped on the back in the spirit of the purest good-fellowship. Nancy had flitted for the last time across that most fantastic yet so utterly ordinary street; and she paused in the wings for a moment, before going up to her dressing-room, to listen to the tumultuous laughter of the house at the great trap-act which was the climax of the Harlequinade. She saw Bram’s white figure come diving through the shop window and safely caught by the scene-hands stationed on the other side. She saw the Policeman follow close upon his heels, and watched the pair of them chase each other round and round the revolving door. She heard the thunders of applause as the trick staircase shot the protagonists from top to bottom, and the still louder thunder when Bram appeared among the chimney-pots. Then she turned away and had just reached the door of her dressing-room when the corridors which had been echoing with the distant applause became suddenly still as death. “I hope that husband of mine’s not doing some particularly breakneck feat to thrill the Bank Holiday crowd,” she said to the principal girl with whom she shared a room and who was by now nearly dressed. “What has happened?” Nancy repeated. This quiet was unnatural. A gust of overwhelming dread sent her hurrying back down the corridor, as she heard the agonised voice of Worsley crying: “Ring down! Ring down! For the love of God, ring down!” At the head of the stairs she met the Pantaloon, beardless, with startled eyes, who waved her back. “Don’t come down on the stage for a minute, Miss O’Finn. There’s been an accident. He was caught in the star-trap. The spring must have broken.” “Bram....” He nodded, and burst into tears. Nancy hurried past him toward the stage. Beyond the dropped curtain she could hear the murmur of the anxious and affrighted audience. Bram was lying beside the closed trap, the pointed sections of which were red. “There isn’t a doctor in the whole audience,” Worsley was saying. “But several people have run to fetch one. How do you feel now, old man?” Nancy pushed her way through the staring group, and knelt beside Bram, now unconscious, a bloody belt round his white dress, his head pillowed on the string of sausages. “My precious one,” she cried. “Oh, my precious one!” His eyelids flickered at her voice, and his limp body quivered very faintly. “A doctor will be here in a minute, Miss O’Finn,” Worsley said. “A doctor,” she cried. “Damn you, damn you! A doctor! He told you the trap wasn’t working properly. If he dies, it will be you that has killed him.” By now, several of the ladies of the company had joined the group round the prostrate clown. “Hush, dear,” said one of them, “don’t say anything you may regret afterwards.” Nancy did not answer this pacific woman, but bent low over her husband. “My precious one, my precious one.” The doctor came at last. When he had finished his examination, he shook his head. “He is injured mortally.”