Some one knocked at the door, and knocked a second time almost directly.  The Primadonna pushed Alphonsine with her elbow, speaking being still impossible, and the woman understood that she was to answer the summons.

She asked who was knocking, and some one answered.

‘It is Mr. Griggs,’ said Alphonsine.

‘Ask him to wait,’ Margaret succeeded in saying.

Alphonsine transmitted the message through the closed door, and listened for the answer.

’He says that there is a lady dying in the manager’s room, who wants Madame,’ said the maid, repeating what she heard.

Margaret stood upright, turned quickly, and crossed the room to the door, mopping her face with a towel.

‘Who is it?’ she asked in an anxious tone.

‘I’m Griggs,’ said a deep voice.  ’Come at once, if you can, for the poor girl cannot last long.’

‘One minute!  Don’t go away—­I’m coming out.’

Alphonsine never lost her head.  A theatrical dresser who does is of no use.  She had already brought the wide fur coat Margaret always wore after singing.  In ten seconds the singer was completely clothed in it, and as she laid her hand on the lock to let herself out, the maid placed a dark Russian hood on her head from behind her and took the long ends twice round her throat.

Mr. Griggs was a large bony man with iron-grey hair, who looked very strong.  He had a sad face and deep-set grey eyes.  He led the way without speaking, and Cordova walked quickly after him.  Alphonsine did not follow, for she was responsible for the belongings that lay about in the dressing-room.  The other doors on the women’s side, which is on the stage left and the audience’s right at the Opera, were all tightly closed.  The stage itself was not dark yet, and the carpenters were putting away the scenery of the last act as methodically as if nothing had happened.

‘Do you know her?’ Margaret asked of her companion as they hurried along the passage that leads into the house.

’Barely.  She is a Miss Bamberger, and she was to have been married the day after to-morrow, poor thing—­to a millionaire.  I always forget his name, though I’ve met him several times.’

‘Van Torp?’ asked Margaret as they hastened on.

‘Yes.  That’s it—­the Nickel Trust man, you know.’

‘Yes,’ Margaret answered in a low tone.  ’I was asked to sing at the wedding.’

They reached the door of the manager’s room.  The clerks from the box-office and several other persons employed about the house were whispering together in the little lobby.  They made way for Cordova and looked with curiosity at Griggs, who was a well-known man of letters.

Schreiermeyer stood at the half-closed inner door, evidently waiting.

‘Come in,’ he said to Margaret.  ‘The doctor is there.’