"There was a tall, dark man outside the door--he said: 'Is it you, Queenie?' Then I saw my mistake--it was not my husband! But I--thought--I might learn--some fatal secret of hers--so I answered yes." She shuddered from head to foot and a groan of mortal agony broke from her white lips. "That falsehood sealed my doom! He sprang forward without a word, buried this dagger in my breast, and fled. It was Madame De Lisle's enemy. I know now. I received in my heart the stroke that was meant for hers." She paused, then repressing a groan of pain, said feebly: "Have you written it all down?" "Yes, madam," the manager answered. "Very well. I want you all to go away now--I want to be alone--with my husband. Don't let anyone else know I am here. The play must not be stopped. Let him be all mine a little longer!" They turned away in wonder at her strange words, and left her lying there supported on her husband's arm--the beautiful woman with the diamonds in her dark hair, and the dagger's hilt above her heart, her white hand grasping it convulsively while she panted forth to him her strange story in the briefest words she could find, for her strength was ebbing fast, and her pain was becoming almost unendurable. The manager went back to the actress and told her some plausible tale to allay her fears, and, as Sydney had wished, "the play went on." The foolish, fond old "Lear" ranted and raved his little hour, the cruel sisters of "Cordelia"--even poor "Cordelia" herself--all died their mimic deaths upon the stage--little dreaming that a tragedy in real life had been enacted so close and so near, and that poor, erring Sydney lay dead beneath the same roof where the vast throng of people wept and applauded at the superb rendition of Shakespeare's grand creation, "King Lear." Yet so it was, for when Sydney had faltered out her mournful story, she looked up at Captain Ernscliffe and said with a quivering sigh: "I have done now, Lawrence, and the pain is so great I cannot bear it any longer! Will you draw the dagger from my wound and let me die?" But he shrank back aghast at her words. "Oh, Sydney, don't ask me! Will you not see them all first, and say good-bye--your mother, your sisters?' "No, no, I want--none--but you," she moaned, "and, oh, my God, how terrible the pain is! Yet, Lawrence--I will stay yet a little longer--I will try to bear it still, if you will kneel down there and pray for me! I am such a sinner, I am almost _afraid to die_!" "Do you repent, Sydney?" he asked, gently. "Do I?" she wailed; "oh, my God, _yes_! I am sorry for it all, now! Tell her I tried to make atonement at the last. She will forgive me. Little Queenie was always very tender-hearted. Pray for me now--ask God to forgive me, too." He bowed his head and prayed fervently for the welfare of the soul about to be launched upon the shoreless waters of eternity. When the low "amen" vibrated on the night air, she looked up and said moaningly: