Sibyl Andres finished her music, and quickly withdrew as if to escape the noisy applause.  Amid the sound of the clapping hands and boisterous voices, Mr. Taine, summoning the last of his wasted strength, again struggled to his feet.  With those claw-like hands he held to the table for support; while—­shaking in every limb, his features twisted into a horrid, leering grin—­he looked from face to face of the hushed and silent company; with glazed eyes in which the light that flickered so feebly was still the light of an impotent lust.

Twice, the man essayed to speak, but could not.  The room grew still as death.  Then, suddenly—­as they looked—­he lifted that yellow, skinny hand, to his wrinkled, ape-like brow, and—­partially loosing, thus, his supporting grip upon the table—­fell back, in a ghastly heap of diseased flesh and fine raiment; in the midst of which blazed the great diamond—­as though the cold, pure beauty of the inanimate stone triumphed in a life more vital than that of its wearer.

His servants carried the unconscious master of the house from the room.  Mrs. Taine, excusing herself, followed.

In the confusion that ensued, the musicians, hidden behind the floral screen, struck up a lively air.  Some of the guests made quiet preparations for leaving.  A group of those men—­famous in the world of art and letters—­under the influence of the wine they had taken so freely, laughed loudly at some coarse jest.  Others, thinking, perhaps,—­if they could be said to think at all,—­that their host’s attack was not serious, renewed conversations and bravely attempted to restore a semblance of animation to the interrupted revelries.

Aaron King worked his way to the side of Conrad Lagrange, “For God’s sake, old man, let’s get out of here.”

“I’ll find Rutlidge or Louise or some one,” returned the other, and disappeared.

As the artist waited, through the open door of an adjoining room, he caught sight of Sibyl Andres; who, with her violin-case in her hand, was about to leave.  Obeying his impulse, he went to her.

“What in the world are you doing here?” he said almost roughly—­extending his hand to take the instrument she carried.

She seemed a little bewildered by his manner, but smiled as she retained her violin.  “I am here to earn my bread and butter, sir.  What are you doing here?”

“I beg your pardon,” he said.  “I did not mean to be rude.”

She laughed, then, with a troubled air—­“But is it not right for me to be here?  It is all right for me to play for these people, isn’t it?  Myra didn’t want me to come, but we needed the money, and Mrs. Taine was so generous.  I didn’t tell you and Mr. Lagrange because I wanted the fun of surprising you.”  As he stood looking at her so gravely, she put out her hand impulsively to his arm.  “What is it, oh, what is it?  How have I done wrong?”

“You have done no wrong, my dear girl,” he answered “It is only that—­”