'Now,' whispered Carl, and touched the musician on the shoulder, and straight from the violin soared a voice, not soft and low, but clear and loud, and the air was 'Cruel Barbara Allen.' Carl fell back a step or two in his amazement. The white figure on the stage turned round, and for a moment peered into the darkness of the flies--then glided on again. The air once played, the composer cast his violin upon the stage beneath his feet and trampled it, hurled the bow from him, and with one cry, eloquent of agony and rage, turned and dashed past his companion, and, tumbling through the dark and unaccustomed ways, reached the street. Carl followed him and caught him up.

'What is it, Stretton? What is the matter?' he cried, and seized his friend by the arm. Christopher answered nothing, but hurried on like one distracted. 'He's mad,' said Carl within himself--'quite mad.'

They came together to their chambers, and Christopher sank into an arm-chair and moaned, unconscious of Carl's presence, 'Barbara!

Barbara!'

'It is madness,' said Carl, tossing his hands tempestuously towards the ceiling, 'mere midsummer madness. Poor fellow! Stretton! Stretton!

Listen to me! What is it? Don't you know me?'

For Christopher glared at him like one who had no knowledge of him, and then again hid his face within his hands.

'What on earth made you play that tune?' cried Carl.

'She was there, man! She was there!' groaned Christopher, rising and pacing the room with unequal steps.

'Who was there?' said Carl, almost as wildly.

'Barbara,' groaned Christopher again, 'Mademoiselle Helene is Barbara Allen.'

'"Angels and ministers of grace defend us!"' murmured the theatrical Carl. 'I must humour him. Never mind, old man. Suppose she is! what does it matter?'

'Oh, Carl! Carl!' cried the other, turning upon him and gripping him by both shoulders. 'I never loved another woman, and I never can. I would have built my hopes of Heaven upon her truth.'

Carl began to think there was something in it.

'You mean that Mademoiselle Helene is Miss Allen?'

'Yes, I said so.'

'And that you knew her?'

'We were sweethearts when we were children. We were engaged to be married two years ago. Would you believe it, Carl? would you believe it?

I had a letter from her only this morning dated from the old place in the country. Think of the cunning perfidy of it!'

'How long can she have known Holt?' asked Carl, rather to himself than Christopher.

'Why, how can I tell?' said the musician, groaning. 'She has deceived me all along.'

There was no present consolation possible, and Carl had the sense to see it. He lit a pipe and watched his unhappy friend sympathetically.

Christopher went up and down the room exclaiming here and there against the perfidy of woman. There came an imperious summons at the door.

'Don't let him in, whoever it is,' said Christopher.

Somebody kicked the door and roared 'Rubach!'

'It's Milford,' said Carl; 'the manager. There's going to be a row. A bit of a row will do you good, my poor fellow. I shall let him in.'

So said, so done. Enter Milford the lordly, in a towering rage, followed by Holt, evidently disposed to appease his manager's wrath.

'I have called,' said the manager, blowing hard and fixing a savage eye on Carl, 'to know what the devil you mean, sir, by turning the theatre into a bear-garden?'

'My good sir----' said Carl with Continental affability.

'Don't "good sir" me, sir,' cried the manager. 'What the devil do you mean, sir?'

'This is a matter for commiseration, sir, not for anger,' Carl began.

Then the great man began to swear, and did it well and fluently, with gusto. When he had done, he collected himself and shook his fist at Carl with a final admonition.

'Don't you come near my theatre again, you--you foreign rascal.'

'It is I who am to blame,' said Christopher, 'and not he. It was I who played for him, and who--in short, I am to blame.'

The manager glared speechlessly for a moment, and then gasped,

'Explain, sir.'

'Mr. Rubach,' said Christopher, 'had sprained his wrist by a fall this evening. He came to me and requested me to play for him behind the scenes in the last act. You know what happened. _That_ I cannot explain.'

The situation was awkward for everybody. If Barbara's perfidy had sullied his own life and left him desolate, Christopher could still speak no evil of her in the presence of the man for whom she had jilted him. Carl's tongue was tied by his regard for Holt's feelings. The manager naturally wanted to get at the bottom of the situation, and the dramatist felt that a friend whom he was learning to value had somehow imperilled his play. All four stood silent, and footsteps came leisurely up the stone stairs, and were heard very distinctly in the stillness.

The door had been left open, but one of the new-comers stopped to tap at it.

'Come in,' cried Carl, ready to welcome any diversion.

A red face and a grey head came round the door.

'Does Mr. Stretton------? Oh! Chris, my boy, how are you?'

No other a person than Barbara's uncle.

'I've brought Barbara to see you. Come in, Barbara. Why, what's the matter?'

Christopher turned away from Barbara, as she approached him, veiled, and walked to the window, through which he looked on the night, seeing nothing.

'Chris!' said Barbara, in a pathetic, wounded voice. 'Chris!'

Mechanically she raised her veil and looked round upon her uncle with a pale scared face.

'Stretton!' roared Carl, leaping at him and laying forcible hands upon him, forgetful of his own sprained wrist. 'Is this Miss Allen?'

'Yes,' said Christopher, with a sob which would have way in spite of him.

'Then it isn't Mademoiselle Helene,' said Carl.

Christopher turned with bewildered looks.

'Tell me,' he said to Barbara wildly, 'are you playing at the Garrick Theatre?'

'You've been a-drinking, Christopher,' said Barbara's uncle plaintively.