“I saw her occasionally during the next two or three months,” he continued, “though I never went to their rooms again. They had moved—I knew that—because I used to post the cheque every week. But the few times I did see her, I gathered that her husband was not getting any better. And one day I insisted on Lawrence, the specialist, going to see him. I couldn’t have one of my company being worried, I told her, over things of that sort. I can see her face now as I said ‘one of my company.’ I don’t know what Lawrence said to her, but he rang me up at the theatre that night, and he did not mince his words to me. “‘I give him a month,’ he said. ‘It’s galloping consumption.’ “It was just about a month later that the thing happened which I had been dreading. Molly went down with ’flu. Her understudy—the real one—was Violet Dorman, who was unknown then. And, of course it was her chance.” “One moment,” interrupted the Barrister. “Did anyone at the theatre know about this girl?” “Good God! no,” cried the Actor. “Not a soul. In this censorious world actions such as mine in that case are apt to be misconstrued, which alone was sufficient to make me keep it dark. No one knew. “The first night—all was well. Molly went down in the afternoon, and it didn’t come out in any of the evening papers. Violet acted magnificently. She wasn’t Molly, of course—she isn’t now. But it was her chance, and she took it—and took it well. Next morning the papers, naturally, had it in. ‘Temporary indisposition of Miss Molly Travers. Part filled at a moment’s notice with great credit by Miss Violet Dorman.’ She had a press agent and he boomed her for all he was worth. And I read the papers and cursed. Not that I grudged her her success in the slightest, but I was thinking of the afternoon. It was matinée day and the girl must read it in the papers. “There was only one thing for it—to go round and see her. Whatever happened I had to prevent her coming to the theatre. How I was going to do it without giving the show away I hadn’t an idea, but somehow or other it had got to be done. My blundering foolishness—even though it had been for the best—had caused the trouble; it was up to me to try and right it. So I went round and found her with a doctor in the sitting-room. He was just going as I came in, and his face was grave. “‘Harry’s dying,’ she said to me quite simply, and I glanced at the doctor, who nodded. “Poor child! I crossed over to her side, and though it seems an awful thing to say, my only feeling was one of relief. After what Lawrence had said I knew it was hopeless, and since the poor devil had to go he couldn’t have chosen a more opportune moment from my point of view. It solved the difficulty. If he was dying she couldn’t come to the theatre, and by the time the funeral was over Molly would be back. I didn’t realise that one doesn’t get out of things quite as easily as that. “‘I’ve only just realised how bad he was,’ she went on in a flat, dead voice.