Magdalen’s vigilant eyes watched the progress of his reflections suspiciously.  “Captain Wragge,” she said, “if you want time to consider, say so plainly.”

“I don’t want a moment,” replied the captain.  “Place your departure from York, your dramatic career, and your private inquiries under my care.  Here I am, unreservedly at your disposal.  Say the word—­do you take me?”

Her heart beat fast; her lips turned dry—­but she said the word.

“I do.”

There was a pause.  Magdalen sat silent, struggling with the vague dread of the future which had been roused in her mind by her own reply.  Captain Wragge, on his side, was apparently absorbed in the consideration of a new set of alternatives.  His hands descended into his empty pockets, and prophetically tested their capacity as receptacles for gold and silver.  The brightness of the precious metals was in his face, the smoothness of the precious metals was in his voice, as he provided himself with a new supply of words, and resumed the conversation.

“The next question,” he said, “is the question of time.  Do these confidential investigations of ours require immediate attention—­or can they wait?”

“For the present, they can wait,” replied Magdalen.  “I wish to secure my freedom from all interference on the part of my friends before the inquiries are made.”

“Very good.  The first step toward accomplishing that object is to beat our retreat—­excuse a professional metaphor from a military man—­to beat our retreat from York to-morrow.  I see my way plainly so far; but I am all abroad, as we used to say in the militia, about my marching orders afterward.  The next direction we take ought to be chosen with an eye to advancing your dramatic views.  I am all ready, when I know what your views are.  How came you to think of the theater at all?  I see the sacred fire burning in you; tell me, who lit it?”

Magdalen could only answer him in one way.  She could only look back at the days that were gone forever, and tell him the story of her first step toward the stage at Evergreen Lodge.  Captain Wragge listened with his usual politeness; but he evidently derived no satisfactory impression from what he heard.  Audiences of friends were audiences whom he privately declined to trust; and the opinion of the stage-manager was the opinion of a man who spoke with his fee in his pocket and his eye on a future engagement.

“Interesting, deeply interesting,” he said, when Magdalen had done.  “But not conclusive to a practical man.  A specimen of your abilities is necessary to enlighten me.  I have been on the stage myself; the comedy of the Rivals is familiar to me from beginning to end.  A sample is all I want, if you have not forgotten the words—­a sample of ‘Lucy,’ and a sample of ‘Julia.’”

“I have not forgotten the words,” said Magdalen, sorrowfully; “and I have the little books with me in which my dialogue was written out.  I have never parted with them; they remind me of a time—­” Her lip trembled, and a pang of the heart-ache silenced her.