Harvey folded up the paper, and crushed it into his pocket.  He felt no surprise; his brooding on possibilities had prepared him for this disclosure, and, from the moment that his fears were confirmed, he interpreted everything with a gloomy certainty.  Hugh’s fatal violence could have but one explanation, and that did not come upon Harvey with the shock of the incredible.  Neither was he at any loss to understand why Hugh had failed to surrender himself.  Ere-long the newspapers would rejoice in another ‘startling revelation’, which would make the tragedy complete.

In this state of mind he waited for Alma’s coming forth.  She was punctual as she had promised.  At the first sight of her he knew that nothing disagreeable had befallen, and this was enough.  As soon as the cab drove off with them he looked an inquiry.

‘All well,’ she answered, with subdued exultation.  ’Wait till you see the notices.’

Her flushed face and dancing eyes told that she was fresh from congratulation and flattery.  Harvey could not spoil her moment of triumph by telling what he had just learnt.  She wished to talk of herself, and he gave her the opportunity.

‘Many people?’

’A very good hall.  They say such an audience at a first recital has hardly ever been known.’

‘You weren’t nervous?’

’I’ve often been far more when I played in a drawing-room; and I never played so well —­ not half so well!’

She entered upon a vivid description of her feelings.  On first stepping forward, she could see nothing but a misty expanse of faces; she could not feel the boards she trod upon; yet no sooner had she raised her violin than a glorious sense of power made her forget everything but the music she was to play.  She all but laughed with delight.  Never had she felt so perfect a mastery of her instrument.  She played without effort, and could have played for hours without weariness.  Her fellow-musicians declared that she was ‘wonderful’; and Harvey, as he listened to this flow of excited talk, asked himself whether he had not, after all, judged Alma amiss.  Perhaps he had been the mere dull Philistine, unable to recognise the born artist, and doing his paltry best to obstruct her path.  Perhaps so; but he would look for the opinion of serious critics —­ if any such had been present.

At Baker Street they had to wait for a train, and here it happened that Alma saw the evening placards.  At once she changed; her countenance was darkened with anxiety.

‘Hadn’t you better get a paper?’ she asked in a quick undertone.

‘I have one.  Do you wish to see it now?’

‘Is there anything more?’

’Yes, there is.  You don’t know, I suppose, whether Carnaby and his wife were at the Hall?’

‘I could hardly distinguish faces,’ she replied, with tremor.  ’What is it?  Tell me.’

He took out his newspaper and pointed to the paragraph which mentioned Carnaby’s name.  Alma seemed overcome with painful emotion; she moved towards the nearest seat, and Harvey, alarmed by her sudden pallor, placed himself by her side.