The Last Call: A Romance (Vol. 3 of 3)

CHAPTER XXV

From the day of that dinner forward, Lavirotte seemed anxious to make up for what he then spoke of as the neglect of his little godson. One day he came and brought the mug with the boy's name and the date of his birth on it. Another day he brought a spoon, a knife and fork. "You know, Dominique," said Eugene, "this is too much. We are not rich enough to take such presents." "Ah!" said Lavirotte. "You mean also that I am not rich enough to make them. But you see I was not quite at the end of my resources when this engagement turned up, and I shall be in receipt of what I must consider a handsome salary in a couple of weeks." "By Jove, yes," said Eugene. "I do not object to your being guilty of this extravagance if it does not inconvenience you at the moment. I know you will be comparatively well off. I am delighted you are in such good health." At this Lavirotte looked strangely at his friend. "Yes," he said, "I am all right now. But will it last? Has Fraser said anything to you about it?" "He has said to me, simply, what we all know-that a tenor, and particularly a tenor in this climate, is liable to be knocked up at any minute. Beyond that he said nothing, I think, and all you have to do is to be careful of yourself, and see that you don't take cold. If you keep in only your present form, you are bound to make a great hit." "Well, Eugene, at least you are encouraging. My notion is, Fraser thinks I shall never sing the part. But I will, if I died for it. My heart is set on it, and I would rather die than not go on." "Nonsense!" said Eugene. "You're talking in an exaggerated way. You will sing, and sing admirably. The audience will rise to you as one man, and next morning the newspapers won't know where to get words of praise for your performance." Again a queer look came into Lavirotte's eye. "I think, Eugene, you are a very simple man." "I see no need for anything but simplicity in this matter. You know, Dominique, I shall be greatly delighted to be understudy when the opera is started. Of course, I'd rather have anything to do than look on, but there's no help for that." "No," said Lavirotte, with an uncomfortable laugh, "there's no help for it unless fate steps in." "Oh, confound it, Dominique! Give up your 'ifs.' I'm tired of them. Here are Nellie and the boy. Let us drop shop." Lavirotte rose quickly, went to Mrs. O'Donnell, took her hand and shook it tenderly. Then, having lifted the boy in his arms, he kissed him and pressed him to his breast, and carried him about the room' saying: "You will grow to be a fine generous fellow, Mark, like your father; and you will always be as good and gentle as your mother, although you never can be as beautiful. Mark, dear, kiss your godfather, who has no wife, no son of his own. You'll always be fond of Dominique, won't you, boy?" "Of course he will," said Eugene, taking the boy out of Lavirotte's arms and fondling him tenderly. Ever since the boy had come to Eugene until now, there had always hung over the father's mind a certain cloud of gloom. For while he said to himself that Nellie had come to him in the full light of her reason, and with the knowledge that his house had suffered great commercial disaster, between her coming and the birth of the boy greater disaster still had fallen upon them-ruin in fact-and when the boy was born he seemed to be the despairing leader of a forlorn hope. He had often looked at that boy, and wondered whether or not he should be able to find bread for him. The love he had for Nellie was of a different character. It was more robust and less intimate. Supposing his supplies failed absolutely, he could tell her there was no bread, and she would understand. But the little fellow could not understand. He would think that bread came, like the daylight, to all living things alike. He would simply know that he was hungry, and that heretofore when he was hungry he got food. And being hungry again, he would ask for food, and expect it. And if he (the father) had to tell him there was no food, had to try to quiet him with mere words and caresses, how should he, Eugene, feel? And then, although the little fellow might be quieted for a while, he could not be for long, and he would cry piteously for food. And there would be none to give him. The boy would gradually weaken from hour to hour, until he ceased to cry, until he had no strength to cry. Gradually the weakness would increase. His face would become pallid. His rounded pink limbs wasted. His breath short and faint. He would lie exactly as placed, without power to move his body, without power to move his limbs. The little eyes would remain half open. The little fingers could no longer close around the finger of father or mother. The pale lips, parted, would no longer have strength to close at the familiar kiss. Then would come a moment when the eyes would open, the little nose become pinched, the little face haggard, and- It was too horrible to think of. God in his mercy had spared him that sight, and given him instead a comfortable, if small, home, sufficient simple food, and the assurance of the continuance of all these. Now, more than ever, Eugene's heart went forth to his wife and child. They were no longer threatened by want. They should now lack nothing needful for comfort. The little fellow was sturdy and able to walk, and it was the father's delight to go out with Nellie and him, and walk along the streets of shops and see his wife buy the things needful for their small household, and some cheap luxury or toy for their child. It was to him a sensation of great delight that he might spend a few pence, ay, even a few shillings, without mortgaging the future heavily. He seemed suddenly to have shaken off a whole inheritance of care. He laughed frequently, and made light-hearted jokes. He sang to Nellie and his boy for mere amusement, and he made humorously extravagant promises of what he should do for both when the full tide of his good fortune set in. "Dominique and I," said he, "shall draw a line on the map, from London to Constantinople, and we will toss as to who shall go east and who west, and thus we shall take the capitals of Europe by storm. Whichever goes east the first year, goes west the second. This will be fair, and thus we shall never clash. And you shall see all the capitals of Europe, Nellie, and the boy shall be poisoned with every possible sweetmeat that Europe can devise. And I shall get awfully vain of my success, and wear the most extraordinary clothes tailors can invent. And like Napoleon crossing the Alps, in the peepshows, I shall always ride a white horse. And when I go into a new town all the people shall come out and do me homage, and we'll put up at the best hotels. And they will never ask me to pay a bill. I shall simply sing a song in the morning, and kiss my hand and go. A fine life ours will be. And there you are now, Mark. There's a first-class chance for your getting a Bath bun with the legal allowance of clinker in it." Almost every evening now, Lavirotte came. He said one evening: "I am thinking of taking a house in this neighbourhood, and I like yours very well." "You will be a richer man than I am," said Eugene. "If you follow my advice you won't take a house in this street. They are all wretchedly built. Look here," he said. "None of the doors fit. Few of the latches shoot into the jambs or hasps." "That must be a great nuisance," said Lavirotte. "And how about the locks and bolts?" "Most of the locks and bolts are all right. But I am often uneasy when there is no one in the kitchen, and the bolts are not shot; for the spring-lock there enters the hasp so slightly that a good push would send the door in." "That is a pity," said Lavirotte. "But, I suppose, you are not afraid of burglars here." "Burglars! Not I! It would not be worth the while of any burglar to make a set on a house such as this. But a petty thief, a hearth-stone boy, or a degraded old clothes-man might make a raid, and carry off a few shillings' worth." "Quite true," said Lavirotte. "But I think the danger is slight. By-the-way, Eugene, I shall know the day after to-morrow something of the greatest importance, but which I may not now reveal. Something in connection with the first night at the Oberon. You will be there, of course, Mrs. O'Donnell?" "Certainly. I am most anxious to witness your début." "I suppose you won't take Mark?' "Oh, dear, no!" she said. "Mark is always in bed at six o'clock." "That's right," he said. "All children should be in bed early."

CHAPTER XXVI

The morning of the second day after that visit of Lavirotte to O'Donnell, he was in a state of great excitement. That was the day his fate was to be sealed, as far as the medical certificate went. Fraser and he had arranged that he should consult one of the most eminent West End physicians. He had been taking the greatest possible care of himself for some time. This morning he felt better than ever. He was determined that nothing should impair his chance of success. He rose early and had a light breakfast, which was the only meal he ever took in the tower. Then he descended the tower slowly, and walked gently along Porter Street. It was still early; much too early to call on a great West End doctor. When he got to the end of Porter Street he hailed a hansom, and told the man to drive to Hyde Park. When he got there it was about ten o'clock. The day was fine for that time of year, and he thought a walk up and down in the fresh, clear air of the Park would brace him, and make him more fit for the examination he had to undergo. "I must get my mind quiet," he thought. "I must pretend to myself this is a matter of no moment. I must not even let my mind dwell upon what my business is to-day. If I pass the examination I shall have three days for the excitement to wear off. And, no matter what the result of the examination is, I mean to sing the part. It is all very well for Fraser to say I might suffer from stage fright, but no stage fright could be equal to the anxiety I should now be suffering if I gave way to it. If I can control myself now, I could control myself then. And see, I am as calm now as the idlest man that passes me by. "It would not be fair, it would be villainously unfair, for Fraser not to let me sing the part after promising it to me. O'Donnell was promised the second part before the trial of his voice. I know the first part perfectly, every note of it, and now it would be snatching the chance of fame from me to make me stand aside because of a wretched medical certificate." At last it was time to go; and, almost as though he had passed from the Park to the great doctor's waiting-room in a dream, he found himself there, without any clear notion of any circumstances or thoughts by the way. He was fortunate this morning, and found the great man disengaged at the very moment he had appointed. The doctor was an old, good-natured, flabby, gouty-looking man. He was cheerful in his manner, and received Lavirotte as though he knew instinctively there was nothing the matter with him beyond a little hypochondriasis. In a perfectly calm and collected manner Lavirotte explained his case, and told the old physician of the business in which he was engaged, and the fact that his fitness would be put to the test three days hence. "I know," said the doctor, "I know. Your profession is one which at the outset makes great demand on the nerves." Then he asked him some questions about these slight seizures, and proceeded to his examination. He spent at least half-an-hour over the case, during which time Lavirotte's pulse did not vary. Then the old physician sat back in his chair, and looked at his visitor, still with a pleasant expression of countenance. "Of course," he said, "men of your profession are naturally very anxious to fulfil all their engagements, and it is the source of great pecuniary loss to them when they fail to do so. But you know," he added, smiling pleasantly, "we must often think of something besides money. Come, now," he said, "I am not able to give you a complete opinion of your case to-day. What would the pecuniary loss to you be, supposing you did not sing?" "Nothing," said Lavirotte. "I am paid whether I sing or do not sing. Am I not to sing?" "I won't say that to-day. Tell the manager. Let me see, this is Thursday-I would like to have till Saturday morning before finally deciding." "Then," said Lavirotte, perfectly unmoved, "you think there is some likelihood of my not being able to sing?" "Now, now, now," said the doctor, cheerfully. "Have I not told you I would like to wait till Saturday before forming an opinion?" "But my agreement is that I shall have a certificate from you three days before Saturday. That is to-day." "Let me see what can be done," said the old man, stroking his face. "I will give you a letter to the manager saying I would not like to decide finally until Saturday. But that if this delay would break your engagement, I shall give you the certificate to-day. You can drive to the theatre, and if you do not return here within two hours, I shall assume that all is well, and that I shall see you on Saturday." To this Lavirotte consented, in the same unmoved way that had characterised him during the whole interview. He took the note and drove to the Oberon. He sought Fraser and handed him the letter. At first the composer looked disconcerted. "You see, Lavirotte," he said, "there is some doubt." "Give me the benefit of that doubt till Saturday. That can do no harm. Eugene is ready to take my part if the decision is against me." "Very good," said Fraser, reluctantly. "Let us wait till Saturday." All that day and all Friday Lavirotte preserved an imperturbable calm. All that day and all Friday Fraser was in a state of feverish anxiety. "It must be a touch-and-go affair with him," he thought, "if the doctors cannot say yes at once. The least error on the part of the doctor might lead to a terrible disaster, and I have risked my reputation on this opera. If he fainted on the stage, or behind, there might be a dreadful hitch. One thing I'm determined on, that O'Donnell shall be dressed and made up for the part, and in the theatre half-an-hour before the curtain goes up." There was a full-dress rehearsal on Friday, in which Lavirotte went through his part with a calmness and certainty he had never displayed before. Of all the performers, he betrayed the least hesitancy. He took every note with perfect ease. Even Fraser was surprised, and O'Donnell congratulated him warmly when the rehearsal was over. Lavirotte left the theatre soon, and went straight to St. Prisca's Tower. "Did not Dominique sing excellently today?" said O'Donnell to Fraser. "Yes, he did," said Fraser, constrainedly. "But you know, O'Donnell, there is no trusting the future; and remember I tell you, in the most impressive way I can, that I may have to call upon you at the last moment to go on and sing the part. I am aware you know it perfectly, but I shall want to see you at the theatre not later than eleven o'clock on Saturday. And again half-an-hour before the curtain goes up you must be ready in every respect to go on. Mind, in every respect." When O'Donnell got home that evening, he told Nellie he thought there was something strange in Lavirotte's manner, and that Fraser seemed unnaturally anxious about the other's health. He then told her that Lavirotte had gone through the part admirably that day, and that everyone noticed an improvement in his style. Even Fraser himself had to admit this. "I am to be at the theatre not later than eleven to-morrow, and all ready to go on half-an-hour before the curtain rises. That is, I must be dressed and made up at half-past seven. So that you will come into town with me when I am going in the morning, and wait about somewhere. I will be with you part of the time, of course, and we will be home together after the opera. We can get whatever we want in some restaurant." "And what about the boy?" "Oh, as we arranged," said Eugene, "he is to remain here. I'm sure Bridget will take care of him, and put him to bed at the usual time. As you know, Nellie, I should be very sorry that Lavirotte's health prevented him; but still, suppose at the last moment he did not sing, would it not be a glorious thing if I got a chance and succeeded?"

CHAPTER XXVII

Next morning, Lavirotte was stirring betimes. He followed the same plan as on the Thursday, getting quietly to the Park and there lounging about for a while, until it was time to call at the doctor's. Then, with a slow step and imperturbed face, he strode along, got to the house of the great man at the precise time agreed, and was instantly admitted to the study, where the doctor sat. "Ah!" said the physician, rising. "My letter was effective. That is a good omen, let us hope." To-day there was no need for explanation. Nor did it seem the great man had need to make so extended an examination. In a very short time he put down the stethoscope, rubbed his hands encouragingly, and said: "You told me the other day, when you were here, you would not lose any money by not singing to-night, and that you would, under your agreement, be entitled to draw your salary as though you had sung. Now, you see, you are a young man, and I am an old one, and if I were in your shoes, instead of exciting myself at a stuffy theatre, I'd go to some nice quiet place, say some seaside place, and spend a while there." "I know," said Lavirotte, rising quietly. "I understand what you mean." The doctor rose also, and putting his hand on the young man's shoulder, said: "Now, you mustn't be too hasty. I am accustomed to say what I want to say." "And you do not find yourself in a position to give me the certificate I require." "I would most certainly recommend you not to put any undue strain upon yourself just now. Come to me in a fortnight, suppose. We will then see what the rest has done you." "Thank you," said Lavirotte. "I am a ruined man." "Nonsense!" said the doctor. "Talk of being a ruined man, when you can say you will lose nothing!" "But you think there is something very bad the matter with me?" "I think any unusual excitement would be exceedingly injurious to you, and perhaps dangerous." Lavirotte bowed and withdrew. He drove to the Oberon, and went directly to Fraser. "It is as I feared," he said calmly, deliberately, coldly. "He will not allow me to sing. I am very sorry for my own sake. From what he told me, I do not think I have long to live. Fraser, you have done your best to be a good friend to me. It would be folly that a man in my condition should go on, when you have a better man in splendid health as a substitute. I won't come near the theatre to-night, but I'll look you up to-morrow. O'Donnell will sing the part better than I could. I suppose, Fraser, you don't mind keeping the thing open for me for a fortnight?" Fraser was moved. At the first moment he was rejoiced to find that O'Donnell was to sing the part. Then he suddenly reflected that this must be a terrible blow to Lavirotte, and that, moreover, these faintings must indicate something very serious. It was indeed hard that a young man, in the flower of his youth, should be stopped at the very threshold of his career by an affection which might incapacitate him from ever following that career. He assured Lavirotte in the most cordial and emphatic manner that he was sincerely sorry; and upon hearing what the doctor had recommended with regard to the seaside, he insisted upon Lavirotte taking a cheque for two weeks' salary, and then bade him begone, without a moment's notice, to some place calculated to improve his health. "Is O'Donnell here?" asked Lavirotte. "I'd like to see him before I go." Fraser sent for Eugene. "You are to sing my part, old fellow," said Lavirotte, when the other entered. "The doctor says I must not. I know you will do it better than I. I will not come near the theatre to-night. This is the important news I thought I should have to tell you. I must now say good-bye. You are all too busy for me to stop." O'Donnell was quite overwhelmed. He took Lavirotte's right hand in his, put his left on the shoulder of the other, and looked at him fixedly. "You're not ill; you're not really ill, my dear Dominique! I can't believe it, and you will sing the part." Lavirotte shook his head quietly. "Ask Fraser. He will tell you. He has suspected all along I might not be able for the part." "But you are able for it, better able for it than I am," said Eugene, generously. "No, Eugene," said Lavirotte quietly. "My health, it appears, is not equal to the excitement, and your voice is more suited to the music. I am going away to the seaside, somewhere. I don't know or care where-to Glengowra perhaps. I'm sorry I ever left Glengowra. If I go there I shall call upon your father and mother, and tell them of the success you are sure to make to-night. Give my love to your wife, Eugene, and kiss your boy for me." "Will you not come and see Nellie?" said Eugene, the tears standing in his eyes. "She is in town, and we can find her in a few minutes." "No, no, Eugene. I cannot. I had better go away straight to my eyrie. Good-bye, Eugene. Kiss the boy for me when you go home. You told me you would not bring him in to-day. The only thing I would like to see before setting out is your wife's face when you have sung in the trio and the solo, at the end of the second act. God bless you, my dear boy. Thank you, a thousand times, Fraser," and he was gone. The two men in the manager's room looked at one another strangely when they were alone. "Did you ever think," said Fraser, "that Lavirotte was a little mad?" "He's sometimes queer," said Eugene, guardedly. "Now, O'Donnell," said the other briskly, "you'll have to do the very best you can in the part." "I am sincerely sorry for the occasion of my taking it, but of course I will do my best." Lavirotte went straight to the bank on which the cheque was drawn, got his money, and betook himself to his lonely chamber in the tower. O'Donnell went straight to where he had left his wife, and told her the turn which events had taken. "What can be the matter with him?" asked Nellie, her first thought being for the man whose health was threatened. "I don't know. He did not say," answered Eugene, "and I did not care to ask. It must be something serious. And now I must run away, Nellie, and you may not hope to see me again until the evening. I shall be very busy until then. Go and amuse yourself somewhere, darling. Come about half-past six to the theatre, stage door. I must be off now." Time sped so quickly at the theatre that day, that Eugene O'Donnell could scarcely believe an hour had passed from the time he had seen his wife, until it was time for him to begin to dress. He had told his wife to come to him at half-past six. The curtain would not go up for an hour-and-a-half after this. At the time she arrived at the theatre he was engaged, and she had to wait for him. The doors were already open. As soon as the lights were turned up, she had been shown into a box, as everything was in confusion behind. Here she sat, with the curtains drawn, expecting him every moment. Suddenly he burst into the box, in the costume of a Greek brigand. Although she had seen him in the dress-he had put it on at home to amuse her and their boy-she did not at first recognise him, and started and rose in a fright. At last she cried out in a suppressed voice: "Eugene, I did not know you. How splendid you look." "How can I tell her?" he said. "What!" she said. "What is the matter? Has anything happened to Lavirotte?" "No," he said, "but our house-Nellie, bear up-has met a misfortune." "Be quick." "And is in flames." "Great God! And our boy, our child!" "Is safe, no doubt." "Who brought the news?" "Lavirotte; come, we must go at once." "You are not certain about our boy? Oh, Eugene, you are not sure of the worst?" "No; I pledge you my word, I am not." "And when we find him safe with the nurse, who would die for him, will you be able to get back here in time?" "No; even if I could, I durst not try to sing to-night, after this." "And who is to sing the part?" "Dominique." "Dominique!" "Dominique Lavirotte."

CHAPTER XXVIII

O'Donnell and his wife drove furiously to Hoxton. Neither spoke the whole way. Each was mute with terror, hope, and fear, all beating wildly about in their minds. When they reached Cecil Street there was no longer any doubt of the truth of Lavirotte's story. The house was all in a blaze. A double line of police kept back the crowd, and several engines were busily at work. The cab drew up just outside the line of police. O'Donnell told his wife to sit where she was. He had snatched up an overcoat and hat on his way from the theatre, and in the cab removed as much of the make-up as possible from his face, so that there was little or nothing unusual in his appearance. He was about to rush through the line of police when one of them caught him. O'Donnell shook off the hand, and said: "It is my house. Is my boy safe?" "Beg pardon, sir. There's the inspector," said the policeman. O'Donnell went up to the inspector, and cried excitedly: "This is my house. Can you tell me if my boy is safe?" The inspector turned round and looked steadily at O'Donnell for a second or two. "Are you sure the boy was in the house?" "Yes, quite sure; and an old servant. Bridget is her name." "Oh," said the inspector, looking at O'Donnell again, "I think you may make your mind easy. We did not know there was anyone in the house. We heard it was Mr. O'Donnell's house." "My name is O'Donnell, and my boy and servant were in the house when we left. The boy is between two and three years old." "You are quite sure the boy and woman were there at the time the fire broke out?" "When did it break out?" asked O'Donnell. "At about half-past six; between that and seven." "Oh, yes," said O'Donnell. "They are sure to have been both there at that time. The boy always went to bed at six, and the servant never stirred out. She did not know a soul in the neighbourhood." "Then, sir, I think you may make your mind quite easy. It is almost certain that upon the first alarm of fire she fled with the child from the house." "But where can she have fled to? I tell you she had no friends in the neighbourhood. We are only newly come here." "Perhaps she might have known where you were." "Oh, yes, she knew where I was. She knew I was to be at the Oberon Theatre tonight, and that my wife was to be with me. I was to have sung there to-night, but had to let a friend take my part when I got this news. Do you really think, inspector, the boy is safe?" "Well, you see, the chances are a thousand to one the servant is safe, because it isn't likely she was asleep at such an hour, and just after putting the child to bed; and 'twould be quite easy for any grown-up person to get out of a small house like that." "Do you know where the fire broke out?" "In that room there, looking into the side passage." "Why, that's where the boy and the servant slept." "Then, sir, that makes me all the surer they are both safe, for the chances are that by some accident she set fire to the room and then ran away with the child." "I thank God," cried O'Donnell fervently. "I will run and tell my wife; she is in a cab near." O'Donnell ran back to the hansom. "Good news!" he cried, "good news! The inspector tells me the boy and Bridget are safe." Mrs. O'Donnell merely clasped her hands. She did not speak. Her hands fell in her lap. Her head dropped back. She had fainted. "Policeman," cried O'Donnell, "where is the nearest hotel?" The policeman told him. O'Donnell jumped into the cab and drove to it. Restoratives were applied, and in a short time she recovered consciousness. The people at the hotel had heard of the fire, and were willing to lend all the assistance in their power. A room was prepared for Mrs. O'Donnell, and when he had seen that everything was done for her comfort, Eugene left her, promising to return soon. "You will bring him to me the moment you find him?" said the poor mother feebly. "I should be quite well if Mark were here. I do not want you to leave me, but you must go and find our boy. If he and Bridget are not at the theatre, you are sure to find him in some neighbour's house. Anyone would take them in!" O'Donnell assured his wife he would not lose a moment in bringing the boy, kissed her tenderly, and left her. As he returned to the fire, he thought: "I need not lose time going to the theatre. Lavirotte and Fraser know I am here and am likely to stay here, and they will be sure to send someone with news of the boy and nurse if they should turn up at the theatre." When he got back to the fire, he sought the inspector and asked him if any message had come from the Oberon. The inspector replied in the negative. Then O'Donnell told him he was sure a messenger would come if Bridget and the boy got there. Then he asked the inspector: "Wasn't it likely if Bridget ran to any of the neighbours they would take her and the boy in?" "Of course, they would be only too glad of the chance," said the inspector. "Is there nothing can be done?" said O'Donnell. "Can I do nothing?" The inspector waved his hand towards the fire: "That's all in the hands of the firemen now. They had given up trying to save any of the furniture before you arrived. Since you left me I have been making inquiries, and I find that before anyone entered the house the room over the passage was burnt out, and that nothing is known up to this of the child or the servant. I got a description of both the nurse and the boy from your next-door neighbour, and sent it to the office. Word will be sent round from there, and the moment they have any news they are to forward it to me." "What had I better do, then?" said O'Donnell, who was in a state of feverish restlessness. "If you will take my advice," said the inspector, "you will go back to Mrs. O'Donnell, and stay with her. We shall certainly have the first news, and I will send it on to you." "I can't," he said; "I can't go back until I have the boy with me. I told her I would go to her the moment I found him, and if I went without him she would get a great shock, for her first impression would be that I had bad news about him, and I should be unable to get that idea out of her mind for a long time, if at all, before he was brought to us. I cannot, I will not go back without him," said O'Donnell, frantically. He now for the first time realised the fact that his boy might be lost to them for ever. "It will kill his mother," he added, "if anything happens to our child." Then he put his hand before his eyes, and turned away from the inspector. The inspector turned away from him, issued some unnecessary orders in a loud voice, and walked off. O'Donnell could not leave the spot. If good news were to come, that would be the first place it would reach. If it was his cruel fate that he should have to learn bad news, it should be extracted from the ashes of that blazing fire. No, he could not leave this spot. He could not return to his wife; and to go inquiring of neighbour after neighbour if he had seen Mark, would be triple pain upon pain, disappointment upon disappointment, suspense unhappily resolved on suspense unhappily renewed. By this time it was growing late. The fire had spent its fury. There was no danger of its spreading, and the roof of the doomed house was expected every moment to fall in. O'Donnell paced up and down restlessly inside the lines of police where the firemen were busy. Now and then he spoke a few words to the inspector. Now and then the inspector spoke a few cheering words to him. Still no message came from the theatre. Still no message came from the police-station. Another hour dragged its weary length along; and still no message, no news, no tidings of any kind. Gradually the inspector had seemed to lose hopefulness. He had begun to admit to Eugene it was strange they heard nothing of the woman or the boy. He looked at his watch. "Half-past eleven," he said. "I am surprised. And yet, I cannot but believe they have both escaped." Suddenly there was a movement in the crowd outside the line of police. A sergeant came to the inspector, who was standing with O'Donnell, and told him that a woman representing herself as the child's nurse was in the crowd. The inspector and O'Donnell hastened to the spot where she stood. O'Donnell was not able to speak. He saw she had not the boy with her. "When did you leave the house?" said the inspector. "At about half-past six." "You took the boy with you?" "No, sir. I left him in the house." "My God!" cried O'Donnell. "Then there is no hope?" This question, addressed to the inspector by O'Donnell, was not answered. The policeman turned away, and, addressing one of the sergeants, said: "The crowd must stand farther back." O'Donnell seized the railing of the house opposite his burning home, and said quietly to himself: "Our little boy! our little Mark is dead! We shall never see him again, never!" Then he placed both his arms on the railings, and leaned his head on his arms, and the inspector led the woman away, and the sergeant kept the crowd farther back, and the people who had been looking at the fire through the windows facing where he leant, went away from their windows, drew down the blinds, and lowered the gas. They knew O'Donnell by sight. They had watched what had passed, and they guessed that the father had been overwhelmed by the certainty of his child's death.