“ ‘What do you mean?’ I stammered out.
“ ‘I suppose you did it for the best, Mr. Trayne. I suppose I ought to be grateful. But you lied that night—didn’t you?’
“I was fingering a book on the table and for the life of me I couldn’t think of anything to say. ‘He doesn’t know,’ she went on. ‘He still thinks I’m a God-sent genius. And he mustn’t know.’
“ ‘Why should he?’ I said. And then I put my hand on her arm. ‘Tell me, how did you find out?’
“ ‘You admit it then?’
“ ‘Yes,’ I said quietly, ‘I admit that I lied. I was so desperately sorry for you.’
“ ‘I mentioned it to someone—a man who knew the stage—about a week ago. He looked at me in blank amazement, and then he laughed. I suppose he couldn’t help it: it was so ridiculous. I was furious—furious. But afterwards I began to think, and I asked other people one or two questions—and then that came,’ she pointed to the paper, ‘and I knew. And now—oh! thank God—he’s dying. He mustn’t know, Mr. Trayne, he mustn’t.’
“And at that moment he came into the room—tottered in is a better word.
“ ‘Boy,’ she cried in an agony, ‘what are you doing?’
“ ‘I thought I heard Mr. Trayne’s voice,’ he whispered, collapsing in the chair. ‘I’m much better to-day, much. Bit weak still——’