‘You shall hear, at least, nothing that has not fallen from his own lips. When he showed such fear of his enemy, I reproached him for his lack of courage, and through a gap in the stage curtain pointed you out to him as you sat in your box, exposed to all those shouts and jeers, and apparently unmoved by them. But the sight of you only seemed to depress him still more.’ ‘“That is the last I shall see of my Margaret,” he said; “I have lost her for ever.” And again he spoke the truth.’ ‘He did not,’ cried Margaret vehemently; ‘he only thought he spoke it. He imagined because the play had failed that I should give him back his troth. But what is the play to me? My heart is his; I can wait for him. We are still very young; what need is there for despair?’ ‘That is what I thought, that is what I said,’ returned Mrs. Jordan pitifully, ‘because I was in the dark, as you are. I said, “It will matter nothing to Margaret, if she really loves you; you will still be the same to her.” ‘“No, I shall not,“ he answered; “I can never be the same to her. If not to-night, to-morrow, if not to-morrow, the next day, that villain yonder will unmask me; she will know me for what I am, and loathe me.” ‘I had to leave him then, to speak the epilogue, and when I returned, he looked like one who had utterly lost heart and hope. No one troubled himself about him. Mrs. Powell had gone away, and the others departed, cursing the play and all who had had any hand in its production. I dared not leave him to himself, and besought him to go home at once. “I have no home,“ he said; then I took him to my own house.’ ‘That was good of you,’ murmured Margaret, pale as death. Then Mrs. Jordan knew that the worst was over; that what she had to tell, however sad and terrible, would fall upon ears prepared to hear it. And yet even now she could not tell her right out, ‘Your Willie is a cheat and a liar.’ ‘In the carriage the poor fellow sat like a dead man, huddled in one corner, without speech and motion; but once within doors, I insisted on his taking some wine, which revived him a little. “You cannot stop here,“ I said, speaking to him as severely as I could, for kindness only seemed to unnerve him; “I will send out and get you a bed at some inn. But if it will be any comfort to you to relieve your mind, I am ready to hear whatever you have to say.“ He made a movement towards his breast-pocket which filled me with apprehensions. “If you have a pistol there,“ I said, “give it to me at once. Whatever you may have done, however you may have wronged Margaret, you will surely not add self-slaughter to your other sins? You will not break her heart by killing yourself?” ‘“No, no,“ he murmured; “it is not that.” ‘I found it was impossible to get any connected narrative out of him, so I put a question or two. ‘“Who is this enemy of yours, and why should it be in his power to harm you?”