“ ‘There’s only one way, Mr. Trayne, though I think it’s going to break my heart. I must go to the theatre.’
“ ‘But—your husband . . .’ I stammered.
“ ‘Oh! I’m not really going. I shall be here—at hand—the whole time. Because if the end did come—why then—I must be with him. But he’s got to think I’ve gone; I’ve got to hide from him until after the matinée is over. And then I must tell him’—she faltered a little—‘of my success. I’ll keep the papers from him—if it’s necessary. . . .’ She turned away and I heard her falter: ‘Three hours away from him—when he’s dying. Oh, my God!’ ”
The Actor paused, and the Soldier stirred restlessly in his chair. “I left shortly after,” he went on at length, “I saw she wanted me to.
“All through the play that afternoon it haunted me—the pathos of it—aye, the horror of it. I pictured that girl hiding somewhere, while in the room above the sands were running out. Longing with all the power of her being to go to him—to snatch every fleeting minute with him—and yet condemned by my stupidity to forfeit her right. And then at last the show was over, and I went to her room again.
“She was by his side, kneeling on the floor, as I came in. As he saw me he struggled up on his elbow, and one could see it was the end.
“ ‘Dear fellow,’ I said, ‘she was wonderful—just wonderful!’
“And the girl looked up at me through her blinding tears.
“ ‘Just wonderful,’ I said again. Five minutes later he died. . . .”
The Actor fell silent.