“But then came the horrible thought that if Jack did it, it was murder, and he would be hung. And, after all, it was his wife that the harlequin had made love to—and old Jack loved her very much indeed himself and had been good to her—and she was his wife. And that bit of steel would hang him if it should be known. But no one but me—and whoever made it, and put it on the trap—even knew of its existence—and Mr. Haliday was my master—and the man was dead—and he was a villain!

“I was living then at Quarry Place; and in the old quarry was a pond so deep that the boys used to say that far down the water was boiling hot, it was so near Hell.

“I softly opened the window, and, there in the dark, threw the bit of steel as far as I could into the quarry.

“No one ever knew, for I have never spoken a word of it till this very minute. I was not called at the inquest. Everyone was in a hurry; the coroner and the jury and the police. Our governor was in a hurry too, because we wanted to go on as usual at night; and too much talk of the tragedy would hurt business. So nothing was known; and all went on as usual. Except that after that Mrs. Haliday didn’t stand in the wings during the harlequinade, and she was as loving to her old husband as a woman can be. It was him she used to watch now; and always with a sort of respectful adoration. She knew, though no one else did, except her husband—and me.”

When he finished there was a big spell of silence. The company had all been listening intently, so that there was no change except the cessation of Hempitch’s voice. The eyes of all were now fixed on Mr. Wellesley Dovercourt. It was the rôle of the Tragedian to deal with such an occasion. He was quite alive to the privileges of his status, and spoke at once:

“H’m! Very excellent indeed! You will have to join the ranks of our profession, Mr. Master Machinist—the lower ranks, of course. A very thrilling narrative yours, and distinctly true. There may be some errors of detail, such as that Mrs. Haliday never flirted again. I ... I knew John Haliday under, of course, his real name. But I shall preserve the secret you so judiciously suppressed. A very worthy person. He was stage carpenter at the Duke’s Theatre, Bolton, where I first dared histrionic triumphs in the year—ah H’m! I saw quite a good deal of Mrs. Haliday at that time. And you are wrong about her. Quite wrong! She was a most attractive little woman—very!”

The Wardrobe Mistress here whispered to the Second Old Woman:

“Well, ma‘am, they all seem agoin’ of it to-night. I think they must have ketched the infection from Mr. Bloze. There isn’t a bally word of truth in all Hempitch has said. I was there when the accident occurred—for it was an accident when Jim Bungnose, the clown, was killed. For he was a clown, not a ‘arlequin; an’ there wasn’t no lovemakin’ with Mrs. ’Aliday. God ‘elp the woman as would try to make love to Jim; which she was the Strong Woman in a Circus, and could put up her dooks like a man. Moreover, there wasn’t no Mrs. ’Aliday. The carpenter at Grimsby, where it is he means, was Tom Elrington, as he was my first‘usband. And as to Mr. Dovercourt rememberin’! He’s a cure, he is; an’ the Limit!”