‘It is I who am to blame,’ said Christopher, ‘and not he. It was I who played for him, and who—in short, I am to blame.’
The manager glared speechlessly for a moment, and then gasped,
‘Explain, sir.’
‘Mr. Rubach,’ said Christopher, ‘had sprained his wrist by a fall this evening. He came to me and requested me to play for him behind the scenes in the last act. You know what happened. That I cannot explain.’
The situation was awkward for everybody. If Barbara’s perfidy had sullied his own life and left him desolate, Christopher could still speak no evil of her in the presence of the man for whom she had jilted him. Carl’s tongue was tied by his regard for Holt’s feelings. The manager naturally wanted to get at the bottom of the situation, and the dramatist felt that a friend whom he was learning to value had somehow imperilled his play. All four stood silent, and footsteps came leisurely up the stone stairs, and were heard very distinctly in the stillness. The door had been left open, but one of the new-comers stopped to tap at it.
‘Come in,’ cried Carl, ready to welcome any diversion.
A red face and a grey head came round the door.
‘Does Mr. Stretton———? Oh! Chris, my boy, how are you?’
No other a person than Barbara’s uncle.
‘I’ve brought Barbara to see you. Come in, Barbara. Why, what’s the matter?’