“I think,” went on the Actor thoughtfully, “that that is where the tragedy of it all really lay. Afterwards she told me that the part of her plan which had seemed most difficult to her was getting my consent to go with her to Kensington. Once that was done, she knew all would be well, she was absolutely and supremely confident. And when I went on to the stage for the fourth act, she felt that success had crowned her efforts, that what was to come after was nothing compared to that which she had already done. The inaccessible stronghold had been stormed, the ogre had proved to be a lamb. “Well, we went to Kensington. I sent my own car home, and we took a taxi. During the drive she was very silent, and I didn’t try to make her talk. Evidently no inkling of the mysterious plan was to be revealed until we arrived at the address she had given the driver. It was some obscure street that I had never heard of and the name of which I have completely forgotten. I know it was somewhere not far from Barker’s. “The door was opened by a repulsive-looking woman who peered at me suspiciously. And then the girl took her on one side and whispered something in her ear. Apparently it had the desired effect, as the Gorgon retired grumbling to an odoriferous basement, leaving us alone in the hall. “When she had shut the door the girl turned to me. “‘Will you come upstairs, Mr. Trayne. I want you to meet my husband.’ “I bowed. ‘Certainly,’ I said, and she led the way. “‘So the husband was in the plan,’ I reflected as I followed her. Was he a genius with a play that he proposed to read to me? I had suffered from the plays of genius before. Or was he some actor down on his luck? If so, why all the mystery? And then, when I’d made up my mind that it was a mere begging case, we arrived at the room. Just before she turned the handle of the door she again looked at me. “‘My husband is ill, Mr. Trayne. You’ll excuse his being in bed.’ “Then we went in. Good Lord! you fellows,” the Actor leant forward in his chair. “I’ve been pretty hard up in the old days, but as I stood inside that door I realised for the first time what poverty—real poverty—meant. Mark you, the girl was a lady; the weak, cadaverous-looking fellow propped up in bed with a tattered shawl round his shoulders was a gentleman. And beyond the bed, and one chair, and a rackety old chest-of-drawers there wasn’t a stick of furniture in the room. There was a curtain in the corner with what looked like a washstand behind it, and a shelf by the bed with two cups and some plates on it. And nothing else except an appalling oleograph of Queen Victoria on the wall. “‘This is Mr. Trayne, dear.’ She was bending over her husband, and after a moment he looked up at me. “‘It was good of you to come, sir,’ he said. ‘Very good.’ And then he turned to his wife and I heard him say: ‘Have you told him yet, Kitty?’ “She shook her head. ‘Not yet, darling, I will now.’ She left his side and came over to me.