“So Middleton, of course, refuses to believe——”
“Refuses to believe that the second wife—oh, I forgot to mention that the clergyman had married again in his own Church; married a woman who turns out to be Anna’s—no, I mean Miriam’s—half-sister, who had been educated abroad in a convent,—refuses to believe, you see, that his wife had anything to do with it. Then Middleton has a splendid scene. He and the clergyman have the stage to themselves. Wyndham’s the man for Middleton, of course. Well, he declares that he has the proof—proof that must convince everybody, and just as he waves it in the air in comes Miriam, who is walking in her sleep, from her sick-bed. They listen. She is talking in her sleep. By Jove, man, don’t you see it? She is talking about the crime! She practically confesses it before their very eyes.”
“Splendid!”
“And she never wakes up—I mean, not in that scene. She goes back to bed and has no idea next day what she has said and done.”
“And the clergyman’s honour is saved?” I hazarded, amazed at my rashness.
“No. Anna is saved. You see, I forgot to tell you that in the second act Miriam’s brother, Sir John, had——”
The waitress brought the little paper checks.
“Let’s go outside and finish. It’s getting frightfully stuffy here,” I suggested desperately, picking up the bills.
We walked out together, he still talking against time with the most terrible confusion of names and acts and scenes imaginable. He bumped into everybody who came in his way. His beard was full of crumbs. His eyebrows danced with excitement—I knew then positively they were false—and his voice ran up and down the scale like a buzz-saw at work on a tough board.
“By Jove, old man, that is a play!”