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shrouded in a tenebrous darkness full of jumping and evilly shifting shadows.

I stood in silence for a while, meditating upon what had come to pass before my eyes—in my hands, to be exact—and I wondered whether, if I had been quicker, something could not have been done to save the unfortunate actor who had so swiftly, and with so little prevision, gone to his long rest. I remembered what the doctor had said about that, and it comforted me a little, but still, I was not quite sure. Perhaps . . . perhaps. . . . And yet, it had all happened so swiftly, so terribly swiftly, that it was over in the space of six or seven seconds. I doubted whether anyone at all could have acted as speedily as that.

While I was in the midst of my thoughts, standing over the sheeted heap on the stage, next to which a policeman was seated stolidly, I felt a slight tug at my sleeve. So unsettled were my nerves by the unwonted occurrences, that I started violently at this sudden interruption to my thoughts. I whirled instantly, and relaxed at the same moment when I found that I was confronted by the white but composed face of Betty Sargent.

She had felt my trepidation in the sudden start I had given. “Sorry to have startled you,” she said. “Won’t you come to my dressing room?” She looked up at me quite frankly.