The young lady had spoken of a rehearsal at the Albert Hall. He knew there was to be a concert there that evening, and possibly it might be an outgrowth of the rehearsal. He would go and see.
Accordingly, at the hour designated upon the bills, he went, armed with a powerful opera-glass, and procuring a conspicuous seat, he swept tier after tier of faces, searching for those which he had seen in the morning.
But disappointment was the result of his efforts; for that fair, girlish face was nowhere to be seen, nor could he find him who had been the young lady’s attendant.
Suddenly, however, a strangely sweet, bird-like voice, rising clear and full on the air, drew his attention to the stage, and there, with a thrill which tingled through every nerve, he saw the lovely girl for whom he was looking.
Ralph Meredith sought for her name upon his programme, which stated that the concert was given, under the auspices of some of the nobility, for some charitable object, and that the talent was all amateur.
“Miss Vivien Sherbrooke,” he read, and he again experienced that sudden heart-throb.
She was not, then, Archibald Sherbrooke’s wife, but, in all probability, his sister.
He listened intently throughout her song; and then, as the sweet voice died away, and she turned to leave the stage, he leaned breathlessly forward to watch her, while thunders of applause went rolling up into the heights bove him.
She came back again after a moment, slightly flushed at the encore, but in a graceful, modest way, and sang a simple ballad.
She was as sweet and charming as she could be, and when at length she ceased and went away again, Ralph Meredith heard a long-drawn breath, as of relief, directly behind him, while a voice said: