“‘Does he know?’ I asked. “‘No. He thinks he’s going to get better. Why didn’t you send for me last night, Mr. Trayne?’ “It was so unexpected, that I hesitated and stammered. “‘I couldn’t get at you in time,’ I said finally. ‘Miss Travers only became ill late in the afternoon.’ “With a strange look on her face she opened a paper—some cursed rag I hadn’t seen. “‘It says here,’ she went on slowly, ‘that she was confined to her bed all yesterday. Oh! it doesn’t matter much, does it?’ She put the paper down wearily, and gave the most heartrending little sobbing laugh I’ve ever heard. “‘What do you mean?’ I stammered out. “‘I suppose you did it for the best, Mr. Trayne. I suppose I ought to be grateful. But you lied that night—didn’t you?’ “I was fingering a book on the table and for the life of me I couldn’t think of anything to say. ‘He doesn’t know,’ she went on. ‘He still thinks I’m a God-sent genius. And he mustn’t know.’ “‘Why should he?’ I said. And then I put my hand on her arm. ‘Tell me, how did you find out?’ “‘You admit it then?’ “‘Yes,’ I said quietly, ‘I admit that I lied. I was so desperately sorry for you.’ “‘I mentioned it to someone—a man who knew the stage—about a week ago. He looked at me in blank amazement, and then he laughed. I suppose he couldn’t help it: it was so ridiculous. I was furious—furious. But afterwards I began to think, and I asked other people one or two questions—and then that came,’ she pointed to the paper, ‘and I knew. And now—oh! thank God—he’s dying. He mustn’t know, Mr. Trayne, he mustn’t.’ “And at that moment he came into the room—tottered in is a better word. “‘Boy,’ she cried in an agony, ‘what are you doing?’ “‘I thought I heard Mr. Trayne’s voice,’ he whispered, collapsing in the chair. ‘I’m much better to-day, much. Bit weak still——’ “And then he saw the paper, and he leant forward eagerly. “‘Ill,’ he cried. ‘Molly Travers ill. Why, my dear—but it’s your chance.’ He read on a bit, and she looked at me desperately. ‘But why weren’t you there last night? Who is this woman, Violet Dorman?’ “‘You see, Tracy,’ I said, picking up the paper and putting it out of his reach, ‘it was so sudden, Miss Travers’ illness, that I couldn’t get at your wife in time.’ “‘Quite,’ he whispered. ‘Of course. But there’s a matinée this afternoon, isn’t there? Oh! I wonder if I’m well enough to go. I’m so much better to-day.’ And then he looked at his wife. ‘My dear! my dear—at last!’ “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such pathetic pride and love shining in a man’s face before or since. “‘I’m afraid you won’t be quite well enough to go,’ I muttered. “‘Perhaps it would be wiser not to,’ he whispered. ‘But to think I shall miss her first appearance. Have you come to fetch her now, Mr. Trayne?’ “‘Yes, darling,’ the girl replied, and her voice sounded as steady as a rock. ‘Mr. Trayne has come to fetch me. But it’s early yet and I want you to go back to bed now. . . .’