Violet O’Neal the _ingénue_, stepped out from behind an imaginary wing and began to walk between two chalked lines on the stage, indicating the bank of the river on one hand, and the ancient mill on the other. In the excitement of the moment she overstepped the margins of the line. “Don’t do that,” said Eliphalet, rising from his seat. “It is not the intention you should fall in the water before being thrown there.” “Back, please,” from Manning. “Once more, please.” Violet retraced her steps and came on again with the nervous air of an amateur walking the tightrope. Eliphalet tapped with his stick on the brass rail of the orchestra pit. “A little more natural grace, please,” he suggested. “And shouldn’t you be singing here?” “Oh, yes, I forgot.” “Quite—but please don’t forget.” Then Mr. Manning, “Once more, please!” And a glance at his watch, for the stage-manager was a person who took lunch seriously. This time she succeeded better with the manœuvre and produced a humming sound intended to indicate a carefree damsel enjoying the evening air. Then from the assumed shadow of the mill leapt two figures and barred her way. “Sir Jasper—you!” cried the girl. “Yes, me.” “I,” corrected Eliphalet. “Yes, I,” amended Fieldfare. “You little counted on the pleasure of renewing our acquaintance so soon—eh?” (Sinister words with a hint of dark deeds behind them.) “Please let me pass.” This imperiously from the girl. “Pass! There is but one passing for you, and that lies there.” With a gesture towards where the water would be on the night. “Unless——” “I am not a child to be frightened by such threats, Sir Jasper. Stand aside, or I shall cry for help.” “Cry, will you?—and who will answer it? The trees—the hills—the river?” Mr. Cartwright placed his foot in the lowest rung of the ladder leading to the rostrum. Miss Maybank: “I command you to let me pass.” Fieldfare: “You little fool! Don’t you realise that at this moment you are utterly mine?—that I could flick out your life as easily as—er—” he fluffed for his words, “as easily as I could crack a nut in a door?” “What are you talking about?” interrupted Eliphalet. “Beneath my heel is the line. Persons of quality do not crack nuts in doors.” Fieldfare: “Crack a nut beneath my heels.” “HEEL—singular. It is not a cocoanut that requires both feet.” “Beneath my heel,” pursued Fieldfare with a nervousness which reflected itself in Mr. Aloysius Cartwright’s lick-lipping, collar-in-finger perturbation. “Choose, and choose quickly—life with me, or death, and death alone.” “God help me!” “Choose.” “Then I choose.” Like lightning she whisked round to make good, but the second man was upon her, and bound her wrists with cruel dexterity. “Frank—Frank!” she cried. Fieldfare: “Little fool! by now your Frank is in the arms of the Duchess of Cleeve.” “It’s a lie!” “No, the truth. So make up your mind quickly—your lover is false to you—which shall it be—life or death?”