Max nodded, his keen eyes considering the shrinking figure leaning against the wall.

“Don’t worry, Baroni,” he said quietly.  “I’ll pull her round.”  Then, as a burst of applause crashed out from the hall, he whispered hastily:  “Get Kirolski to give an encore.  It will allow her a little more time.”

Baroni nodded, and a minute or two later the audience was cheering the violinist’s reappearance, whilst Errington strode across the room to Diana’s side.

“How d’you do?” he said, holding out his hand exactly as though nothing in the world were the matter.  “I thought you’d allow me to come round and wish you luck, so here I am.”

He spoke in such perfectly normal, everyday tones that unconsciously Diana’s rigid muscles relaxed, and she extended her hand in response.

“I’m feeling sick with fright,” she replied, giving him a wavering smile.

Max laughed easily.

“Of course.  Otherwise you wouldn’t be the artiste that you are.  But it will all go the moment you’re on the platform.”

She looked up at him with a faint hope in her eyes.

“Do you really think so?” she whispered.

“I’m sure.  It always does,” he lied cheerfully.  “I’ll tell you who is far more nervous than you are, and that’s the Rector.  Miss Stair and Jerry were almost forcibly holding him down in his seat when I left them.  He’s disposed to bolt out of the hall and await results at the hotel.”

Diana laughed outright.

“How like him!  Poor Pobs!”

“You’d better give him a special smile when you get on the platform to reassure him,” continued Max, his blue eyes smiling down at her.

The violin solo had drawn to a close—­Kirolski had already returned a third time to bow his acknowledgments—­and Errington was relieved to see that the look of strain had gone out of her face, although she still appeared rather pale and shaken.

One or two friends of the violinist’s were coming in at the door of the artistes’ room as Olga Lermontof preceded him down the platform steps.  There was a little confusion, the sound of a fall, and simultaneously some one inadvertently pushed the door to.  The next minute the accompanist was the centre of a small crowd of anxious, questioning people.  She had tripped and stumbled to her knees on the threshold of the room, and, as she instinctively stretched out her hand to save herself, the door had swung hack trapping two of her fingers in the hinge.

A hubbub of dismay arose.  Olga was white with pain, and her hand was so badly squeezed and bruised that it was quite obvious she would be unable to play any more that day.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Quentin,” she murmured faintly.

In her distress about the accident, Diana had for the moment overlooked the fact that it would affect her personally, but now, as Olga’s words reminded her that the accompanist on whom she placed such utter reliance would be forced to cede her place to a substitute, her former nervousness returned with redoubled force.  It began to look as though she would really be unable to appear, and Baroni wrung his hands in despair.