“When she said that, I looked at her pretty sharply. Without appearing conceited or anything of that sort, one has occasionally in the course of one’s career, received certain flattering attentions from charming women—attentions which—er—one is tempted to conceal from one’s wife.” “Precisely,” murmured the Ordinary Man. “Precisely.” “And for a moment, I must confess that the thought passed through my mind that this was one of those occasions. And it wasn’t until the colour rose to her face and stained it scarlet, that I realised that not only had I made a mistake, but that I had been foolish enough to let her see that I had. “‘My God!’ she whispered, ‘you don’t think—you couldn’t think—that I meant . . .’ “She rose and almost cowered away from me. ‘Why, I’m married.’ “I refrained from remarking that the fact was hardly such a conclusive proof of the absurdity of my unspoken thought as she seemed to imagine. I merely bowed, and said a little formally: ‘Please don’t jump to conclusions. May I ask why you wish me to come to a house in Kensington with you?’ “The colour ebbed away from her cheeks, and she sat down again. “‘That’s the very thing I don’t want to tell you, until you come,’ she answered very low. ‘I know it sounds absurd—it must do, it seems as if I were being unnecessarily mysterious. But I can’t tell you, Mr. Trayne, I can’t tell you . . . Not yet. . . .’ “And then the call boy knocked, and I had to go on for the last act. In a way I suppose it was absurd of me—but life is made up of impulses. I confess that the whole thing intrigued me. When a woman comes and tells you that she has seen your play every night since it started; that she’s had to go without her lunch to do so; that it was a necessary part of some wonderful plan, and that she wants you to go to a house in Kensington, the least curious man would be attracted. And from my earliest infancy I’ve always been engrossed in other people’s business. “‘All right,’ I said briefly. ‘I’ll come with you.’ “And then I had to put out my hand to steady her, I thought she was going to faint. Reaction, I thought at the time; later, it struck me that the reason was much more prosaic—lack of food. “I stopped for a moment till she seemed herself again; then I told her to wait outside. “‘I shall be about half an hour,’ I said, ‘and then we’ll take a taxi, and go down to Kensington. Tell them to give you a chair. . . .’ “And my last impression as I went on to the stage was of a white-faced girl clutching the table, staring at me with great brown eyes that held in them a dawning triumph.