‘I promise to keep your secret, so help me God in Heaven,’ said Margaret gravely.

The girl seemed relieved, and closed her eyes for a moment.  She was so pale and still that Margaret thought the end had come, but presently she drew breath again and spoke, though it was clear that she had not much strength left.

‘You must not keep the secret always,’ she said.  ’You may tell him you know it.  Yes—­let him know that you know—­if you think it best—­’

‘Who is he?’

‘Mr. Van Torp.’

‘Yes?’ Margaret bent her ear to the girl’s lips and waited.

Again there was a pause of many seconds, and then the voice came once more, with a great effort that only produced very faint sounds, scarcely above a whisper.

‘He did it.’

That was all.  At long intervals the dying girl drew deep breaths, longer and longer, and then no more.  Margaret looked anxiously at the still face for some time, and then straightened herself suddenly.

‘Doctor!  Doctor!’ she cried.

The young man was beside her in an instant.  For a full minute there was no sound in the room, and he bent over the motionless figure.

‘I’m afraid I can’t do anything,’ he said gently, and he rose to his feet.

‘Is she really dead?’ Margaret asked, in an undertone.

‘Yes.  Failure of the heart, from shock.’

‘Is that what you will call it?’

‘That is what it is,’ said the doctor with a little emphasis of offence, as if his science had been doubted.  ’You knew her, I suppose?’

‘No.  I never saw her before.  I will call Schreiermeyer.’

She stood still a moment longer, looking down at the dead face, and she wondered what it all meant, and why the poor girl had sent for her, and what it was that Mr. Van Torp had done.  Then she turned very slowly and went out.

‘Dead, I suppose,’ said Schreiermeyer as soon as he saw the Primadonna’s face.  ‘Her relations won’t get here in time.’

Margaret nodded in silence and went on through the lobby.

‘The rehearsal is at eleven,’ the manager called out after her, in his wooden voice.

She nodded again, but did not look back.  Griggs had waited in order to take her back to her dressing-room, and the two crossed the stage together.  It was almost quite dark now, and the carpenters were gone away.

‘Thank you,’ Margaret said.  ’If you don’t care to go all the way back you can get out by the stage door.’

’Yes.  I know the way in this theatre.  Before I say good-night, do you mind telling me what the doctor said?’

’He said she died of failure of the heart, from shock.  Those were his words.  Why do you ask?’

’Mere curiosity.  I helped to carry her—­that is, I carried her myself to the manager’s room, and she begged me to call you, so I came to your door.’

’It was kind of you.  Perhaps it made a difference to her, poor girl.  Good-night.’