La nuit lui préte son mystère,
Il doit finir avec le jour—
the voice broke. Men were standing up in the audience. One cried out:
“Il—doit—finir—”
The music clashed in one great discord.
Why did the stage reel under her? What was the shouting?
Her heavy, dark hair fell down about her little white face as she sank on her knees, and covered her as she lay her slender length along the stage.
The orchestra and the audience sprang to their feet. The great blank curtain rattled to the ground. A whirlwind swept over the house. Monsieur Bordier stepped before the curtain.
“My friends!” he began, but his voice failed, and he only added, “C’est fini!”
With hardly a word the audience moved to the exits. But Braith, turning to the right, made his way through a long, low passage and strode toward a little stage door. It was flung open and a man hurried past him.
“Monsieur!” called Braith. “Monsieur!”