“ ‘But don’t think I’m relying on that.’ The girl was speaking again, and I almost laughed. ‘I want you to judge me to-night.’
“I swung round and looked at her. So this was the mysterious plan: I was to witness an impromptu performance, which was to convince me that the second Sarah Bernhardt had been discovered.
“ ‘I couldn’t have shown you, you see, in your dressing-room. I shouldn’t have had time. That’s why I asked you to come here.’
“ ‘You have the courage of your convictions anyway,’ I said quietly. ‘I am perfectly ready to be convinced.’
“ ‘Then will you sit there.’ She took off her hat and coat as I sat down on the only available chair, and from underneath his pillow the man produced a paper-covered book.
“ ‘You’ll forgive me if I read my lines, Mr. Trayne,’ he said. ‘I find I can’t learn them—I can’t concentrate.’ He passed a thin, emaciated hand over his forehead. ‘And it’s her you want to see.’
“He turned over the pages weakly; then he began to read. And I—I sat up as if I’d been stung. At last everything was clear: the continual visits to the theatre—everything. The part of all others which they had selected to prove her ability, was the love-scene between Molly Travers and myself in the third act of ‘John Pendlesham’s Wife. . . .’ ”
For a while there was silence, while the Actor thoughtfully lit another cigarette.
“This unknown child,” he went on after a moment, “who had acted a little in amateur theatricals, had deliberately challenged London’s greatest emotional actress in her most marvellous success before, Heaven help us, me—of all people. I suppose if I was writing a story I should say that she triumphed; that as I sat in that bare and hideous room I realised that before me was genius—a second and greater Molly; that from that moment her foot was set on the ladder of fame, and there was no looking back.”
The Actor laughed a little sadly. “Unfortunately, I’m not writing a story, I’m telling the truth. I don’t know how I sat through the next twenty minutes. It was the most ghastly caricature of Molly that I have ever thought of; the more ghastly because it was so intensely unintentional. Every little gesture was faithfully copied; every little trick and mannerism had been carefully learnt by heart. And this, as I say, to me who acted with that divine genius every night. God! it was awful. That marvellous line of Molly’s, when, standing in the centre of the stage facing me across the table, she said: ‘Then you don’t want me back?’ that line which was made marvellous merely through the consummate restraint with which she said it, sounded from this poor child like a parlour-maid giving notice.