It was horrible, but she must do it. She sank upon her knees and unbuttoned his coat. It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and legal looking. She drew it out with shaking fingers. There was a great splash of blood upon it, her hand was all wet and sticky. A deadly sickness came over her, the room seemed spinning round. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. She held it down with the poker, looking nervously over her shoulder. Then she put more coal on, piled it over the ashes, and stood once more upright.
Still silence everywhere. She pulled down her veil and made her way to the door. She turned out the electric light and gained the hall. Still no sound. Her knees almost sank beneath her as she raised the latch of the front door and looked out. There was no one to be seen. She passed down the stairs and into the street.
She walked for a mile or more recklessly, close veiled, with swift level footsteps, though her brain was in a whirl and a horrible faintness all the time hovered about her. Then she called a hansom and drove home.
“Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said gently, “I am afraid that some fresh trouble has come to you.”
She smiled at him cheerfully.
“Am I dull?” she said. “I am sorry.”
“You could never be that,” he answered, “but you are at least more serious than usual.”
“Perhaps,” she said, “I am superstitious. This is my last week at the ‘Unusual,’ you know. We begin rehearsing on Monday at the ‘Garrick’.”
“Surely,” he protested, “the change is all in favour of your own inclinations. It is your own choice, isn’t it?”