Next morning, Lavirotte was stirring betimes. He followed the same plan as on the Thursday, getting quietly to the Park and there lounging about for a while, until it was time to call at the doctor's. Then, with a slow step and imperturbed face, he strode along, got to the house of the great man at the precise time agreed, and was instantly admitted to the study, where the doctor sat. "Ah!" said the physician, rising. "My letter was effective. That is a good omen, let us hope." To-day there was no need for explanation. Nor did it seem the great man had need to make so extended an examination. In a very short time he put down the stethoscope, rubbed his hands encouragingly, and said: "You told me the other day, when you were here, you would not lose any money by not singing to-night, and that you would, under your agreement, be entitled to draw your salary as though you had sung. Now, you see, you are a young man, and I am an old one, and if I were in your shoes, instead of exciting myself at a stuffy theatre, I'd go to some nice quiet place, say some seaside place, and spend a while there." "I know," said Lavirotte, rising quietly. "I understand what you mean." The doctor rose also, and putting his hand on the young man's shoulder, said: "Now, you mustn't be too hasty. I am accustomed to say what I want to say." "And you do not find yourself in a position to give me the certificate I require." "I would most certainly recommend you not to put any undue strain upon yourself just now. Come to me in a fortnight, suppose. We will then see what the rest has done you." "Thank you," said Lavirotte. "I am a ruined man." "Nonsense!" said the doctor. "Talk of being a ruined man, when you can say you will lose nothing!" "But you think there is something very bad the matter with me?" "I think any unusual excitement would be exceedingly injurious to you, and perhaps dangerous." Lavirotte bowed and withdrew. He drove to the Oberon, and went directly to Fraser. "It is as I feared," he said calmly, deliberately, coldly. "He will not allow me to sing. I am very sorry for my own sake. From what he told me, I do not think I have long to live. Fraser, you have done your best to be a good friend to me. It would be folly that a man in my condition should go on, when you have a better man in splendid health as a substitute. I won't come near the theatre to-night, but I'll look you up to-morrow. O'Donnell will sing the part better than I could. I suppose, Fraser, you don't mind keeping the thing open for me for a fortnight?" Fraser was moved. At the first moment he was rejoiced to find that O'Donnell was to sing the part. Then he suddenly reflected that this must be a terrible blow to Lavirotte, and that, moreover, these faintings must indicate something very serious. It was indeed hard that a young man, in the flower of his youth, should be stopped at the very threshold of his career by an affection which might incapacitate him from ever following that career. He assured Lavirotte in the most cordial and emphatic manner that he was sincerely sorry; and upon hearing what the doctor had recommended with regard to the seaside, he insisted upon Lavirotte taking a cheque for two weeks' salary, and then bade him begone, without a moment's notice, to some place calculated to improve his health. "Is O'Donnell here?" asked Lavirotte. "I'd like to see him before I go." Fraser sent for Eugene. "You are to sing my part, old fellow," said Lavirotte, when the other entered. "The doctor says I must not. I know you will do it better than I. I will not come near the theatre to-night. This is the important news I thought I should have to tell you. I must now say good-bye. You are all too busy for me to stop." O'Donnell was quite overwhelmed. He took Lavirotte's right hand in his, put his left on the shoulder of the other, and looked at him fixedly. "You're not ill; you're not really ill, my dear Dominique! I can't believe it, and you will sing the part." Lavirotte shook his head quietly. "Ask Fraser. He will tell you. He has suspected all along I might not be able for the part." "But you are able for it, better able for it than I am," said Eugene, generously. "No, Eugene," said Lavirotte quietly. "My health, it appears, is not equal to the excitement, and your voice is more suited to the music. I am going away to the seaside, somewhere. I don't know or care where-to Glengowra perhaps. I'm sorry I ever left Glengowra. If I go there I shall call upon your father and mother, and tell them of the success you are sure to make to-night. Give my love to your wife, Eugene, and kiss your boy for me." "Will you not come and see Nellie?" said Eugene, the tears standing in his eyes. "She is in town, and we can find her in a few minutes." "No, no, Eugene. I cannot. I had better go away straight to my eyrie. Good-bye, Eugene. Kiss the boy for me when you go home. You told me you would not bring him in to-day. The only thing I would like to see before setting out is your wife's face when you have sung in the trio and the solo, at the end of the second act. God bless you, my dear boy. Thank you, a thousand times, Fraser," and he was gone. The two men in the manager's room looked at one another strangely when they were alone. "Did you ever think," said Fraser, "that Lavirotte was a little mad?" "He's sometimes queer," said Eugene, guardedly. "Now, O'Donnell," said the other briskly, "you'll have to do the very best you can in the part." "I am sincerely sorry for the occasion of my taking it, but of course I will do my best." Lavirotte went straight to the bank on which the cheque was drawn, got his money, and betook himself to his lonely chamber in the tower. O'Donnell went straight to where he had left his wife, and told her the turn which events had taken. "What can be the matter with him?" asked Nellie, her first thought being for the man whose health was threatened. "I don't know. He did not say," answered Eugene, "and I did not care to ask. It must be something serious. And now I must run away, Nellie, and you may not hope to see me again until the evening. I shall be very busy until then. Go and amuse yourself somewhere, darling. Come about half-past six to the theatre, stage door. I must be off now." Time sped so quickly at the theatre that day, that Eugene O'Donnell could scarcely believe an hour had passed from the time he had seen his wife, until it was time for him to begin to dress. He had told his wife to come to him at half-past six. The curtain would not go up for an hour-and-a-half after this. At the time she arrived at the theatre he was engaged, and she had to wait for him. The doors were already open. As soon as the lights were turned up, she had been shown into a box, as everything was in confusion behind. Here she sat, with the curtains drawn, expecting him every moment. Suddenly he burst into the box, in the costume of a Greek brigand. Although she had seen him in the dress-he had put it on at home to amuse her and their boy-she did not at first recognise him, and started and rose in a fright. At last she cried out in a suppressed voice: "Eugene, I did not know you. How splendid you look." "How can I tell her?" he said. "What!" she said. "What is the matter? Has anything happened to Lavirotte?" "No," he said, "but our house-Nellie, bear up-has met a misfortune." "Be quick." "And is in flames." "Great God! And our boy, our child!" "Is safe, no doubt." "Who brought the news?" "Lavirotte; come, we must go at once." "You are not certain about our boy? Oh, Eugene, you are not sure of the worst?" "No; I pledge you my word, I am not." "And when we find him safe with the nurse, who would die for him, will you be able to get back here in time?" "No; even if I could, I durst not try to sing to-night, after this." "And who is to sing the part?" "Dominique." "Dominique!" "Dominique Lavirotte."

CHAPTER XXVIII

O'Donnell and his wife drove furiously to Hoxton. Neither spoke the whole way. Each was mute with terror, hope, and fear, all beating wildly about in their minds. When they reached Cecil Street there was no longer any doubt of the truth of Lavirotte's story. The house was all in a blaze. A double line of police kept back the crowd, and several engines were busily at work. The cab drew up just outside the line of police. O'Donnell told his wife to sit where she was. He had snatched up an overcoat and hat on his way from the theatre, and in the cab removed as much of the make-up as possible from his face, so that there was little or nothing unusual in his appearance. He was about to rush through the line of police when one of them caught him. O'Donnell shook off the hand, and said: "It is my house. Is my boy safe?" "Beg pardon, sir. There's the inspector," said the policeman. O'Donnell went up to the inspector, and cried excitedly: "This is my house. Can you tell me if my boy is safe?" The inspector turned round and looked steadily at O'Donnell for a second or two. "Are you sure the boy was in the house?" "Yes, quite sure; and an old servant. Bridget is her name." "Oh," said the inspector, looking at O'Donnell again, "I think you may make your mind easy. We did not know there was anyone in the house. We heard it was Mr. O'Donnell's house." "My name is O'Donnell, and my boy and servant were in the house when we left. The boy is between two and three years old." "You are quite sure the boy and woman were there at the time the fire broke out?" "When did it break out?" asked O'Donnell. "At about half-past six; between that and seven." "Oh, yes," said O'Donnell. "They are sure to have been both there at that time. The boy always went to bed at six, and the servant never stirred out. She did not know a soul in the neighbourhood." "Then, sir, I think you may make your mind quite easy. It is almost certain that upon the first alarm of fire she fled with the child from the house." "But where can she have fled to? I tell you she had no friends in the neighbourhood. We are only newly come here." "Perhaps she might have known where you were." "Oh, yes, she knew where I was. She knew I was to be at the Oberon Theatre tonight, and that my wife was to be with me. I was to have sung there to-night, but had to let a friend take my part when I got this news. Do you really think, inspector, the boy is safe?" "Well, you see, the chances are a thousand to one the servant is safe, because it isn't likely she was asleep at such an hour, and just after putting the child to bed; and 'twould be quite easy for any grown-up person to get out of a small house like that." "Do you know where the fire broke out?" "In that room there, looking into the side passage." "Why, that's where the boy and the servant slept." "Then, sir, that makes me all the surer they are both safe, for the chances are that by some accident she set fire to the room and then ran away with the child." "I thank God," cried O'Donnell fervently. "I will run and tell my wife; she is in a cab near." O'Donnell ran back to the hansom. "Good news!" he cried, "good news! The inspector tells me the boy and Bridget are safe." Mrs. O'Donnell merely clasped her hands. She did not speak. Her hands fell in her lap. Her head dropped back. She had fainted. "Policeman," cried O'Donnell, "where is the nearest hotel?" The policeman told him. O'Donnell jumped into the cab and drove to it. Restoratives were applied, and in a short time she recovered consciousness. The people at the hotel had heard of the fire, and were willing to lend all the assistance in their power. A room was prepared for Mrs. O'Donnell, and when he had seen that everything was done for her comfort, Eugene left her, promising to return soon. "You will bring him to me the moment you find him?" said the poor mother feebly. "I should be quite well if Mark were here. I do not want you to leave me, but you must go and find our boy. If he and Bridget are not at the theatre, you are sure to find him in some neighbour's house. Anyone would take them in!" O'Donnell assured his wife he would not lose a moment in bringing the boy, kissed her tenderly, and left her. As he returned to the fire, he thought: "I need not lose time going to the theatre. Lavirotte and Fraser know I am here and am likely to stay here, and they will be sure to send someone with news of the boy and nurse if they should turn up at the theatre." When he got back to the fire, he sought the inspector and asked him if any message had come from the Oberon. The inspector replied in the negative. Then O'Donnell told him he was sure a messenger would come if Bridget and the boy got there. Then he asked the inspector: "Wasn't it likely if Bridget ran to any of the neighbours they would take her and the boy in?" "Of course, they would be only too glad of the chance," said the inspector. "Is there nothing can be done?" said O'Donnell. "Can I do nothing?" The inspector waved his hand towards the fire: "That's all in the hands of the firemen now. They had given up trying to save any of the furniture before you arrived. Since you left me I have been making inquiries, and I find that before anyone entered the house the room over the passage was burnt out, and that nothing is known up to this of the child or the servant. I got a description of both the nurse and the boy from your next-door neighbour, and sent it to the office. Word will be sent round from there, and the moment they have any news they are to forward it to me." "What had I better do, then?" said O'Donnell, who was in a state of feverish restlessness. "If you will take my advice," said the inspector, "you will go back to Mrs. O'Donnell, and stay with her. We shall certainly have the first news, and I will send it on to you." "I can't," he said; "I can't go back until I have the boy with me. I told her I would go to her the moment I found him, and if I went without him she would get a great shock, for her first impression would be that I had bad news about him, and I should be unable to get that idea out of her mind for a long time, if at all, before he was brought to us. I cannot, I will not go back without him," said O'Donnell, frantically. He now for the first time realised the fact that his boy might be lost to them for ever. "It will kill his mother," he added, "if anything happens to our child." Then he put his hand before his eyes, and turned away from the inspector. The inspector turned away from him, issued some unnecessary orders in a loud voice, and walked off. O'Donnell could not leave the spot. If good news were to come, that would be the first place it would reach. If it was his cruel fate that he should have to learn bad news, it should be extracted from the ashes of that blazing fire. No, he could not leave this spot. He could not return to his wife; and to go inquiring of neighbour after neighbour if he had seen Mark, would be triple pain upon pain, disappointment upon disappointment, suspense unhappily resolved on suspense unhappily renewed. By this time it was growing late. The fire had spent its fury. There was no danger of its spreading, and the roof of the doomed house was expected every moment to fall in. O'Donnell paced up and down restlessly inside the lines of police where the firemen were busy. Now and then he spoke a few words to the inspector. Now and then the inspector spoke a few cheering words to him. Still no message came from the theatre. Still no message came from the police-station. Another hour dragged its weary length along; and still no message, no news, no tidings of any kind. Gradually the inspector had seemed to lose hopefulness. He had begun to admit to Eugene it was strange they heard nothing of the woman or the boy. He looked at his watch. "Half-past eleven," he said. "I am surprised. And yet, I cannot but believe they have both escaped." Suddenly there was a movement in the crowd outside the line of police. A sergeant came to the inspector, who was standing with O'Donnell, and told him that a woman representing herself as the child's nurse was in the crowd. The inspector and O'Donnell hastened to the spot where she stood. O'Donnell was not able to speak. He saw she had not the boy with her. "When did you leave the house?" said the inspector. "At about half-past six." "You took the boy with you?" "No, sir. I left him in the house." "My God!" cried O'Donnell. "Then there is no hope?" This question, addressed to the inspector by O'Donnell, was not answered. The policeman turned away, and, addressing one of the sergeants, said: "The crowd must stand farther back." O'Donnell seized the railing of the house opposite his burning home, and said quietly to himself: "Our little boy! our little Mark is dead! We shall never see him again, never!" Then he placed both his arms on the railings, and leaned his head on his arms, and the inspector led the woman away, and the sergeant kept the crowd farther back, and the people who had been looking at the fire through the windows facing where he leant, went away from their windows, drew down the blinds, and lowered the gas. They knew O'Donnell by sight. They had watched what had passed, and they guessed that the father had been overwhelmed by the certainty of his child's death.

CHAPTER XXIX

Meanwhile the inspector had taken the nurse aside, and said to her: "This is a dreadful thing, that a man's house and his child should be burned." The woman was weeping and wailing bitterly. "I was deceived!" she said. "I was cruelly deceived. I don't know why they deceived me. I don't know why that woman deceived me. My beautiful boy! My beautiful child! It will kill his mother, and his father will never look at me again." "I don't ask you to tell me," said the inspector, "anything you don't like. Don't tell me anything that's against yourself. If you get into any trouble over this matter I might find it my duty to tell all you told me. But if you like I will listen to anything you have to say." "I'll tell you all I know about the matter, and you may do what you like with me. You couldn't do anything to me I don't deserve. I should never have left the house. I would never have left the house only for the lie that was told me." "Well, I will listen to what you have to say now, if you wish," said the inspector. The following is the story told by Bridget, the nurse: "My master and mistress left the house early to-day, between ten and eleven o'clock. They said they would not be back till after the play was over. They left me everything the boy and myself should want, and told me I was to get his dinner and my own at the usual time, and his supper between five and six, and that I was to put him to bed at six, as usual. I am an old servant in the O'Donnell family. I brought up Mr. Eugene himself, and they knew they could trust me. "I did everything they told me. I had nothing else to do all day but look after the boy, and get his dinner and my own, and his supper and my tea. I got his dinner and my own between one and two, and then he was with me about the house when I was tidying up, until it was time to get his supper and my tea, between five and six. "I hadn't much to do. There was no knock at the front door, and only a few at the side door, and no one was in the house from the time the master and mistress left, until that ragged boy called in the evening. "I had given the child his supper and put him to bed a little while, and was taking my tea in the kitchen, when there was a single knock at the side door. "I was just done my tea, so I let the knock wait for a minute or so, while I was finishing. Then I got up and opened the side door, and I saw standing there, in the passage, a dirty, ragged boy, of about fourteen or fifteen years of age. "I did not like the look of him at all, and I asked him what he wanted. He said he wanted Mr. O'Donnell's house. "I told him this was it, and asked him what he wanted at Mr. O'Donnell's house. "He said he wanted to see Mr. O'Donnell's nurse, he had a message for her. "I said I was Mr. O'Donnell's nurse, and asked him what his business with me was. "He said he had a private message for me, that he was to give to nobody else. "I could make nothing of him. I didn't expect a message from anyone. He looked a bad boy, a common street boy that had no good bringing up. I did not ask him across the threshold. I said to him: 'Well, if you have any message for Mr. O'Donnell's nurse, give it to me. There is no one near to hear.' "'Are you the nurse?' said the boy, – after my telling him twice I was. "'Yes,' said I, 'I am Mr. O'Donnell's nurse.' "'Then,' said he, 'a woman told me to come and fetch you.' "'What woman, and where does she want me to go to?' I asked. "'Oh, she's a most respectable woman; and she said she'd tell you her business when she saw you, and that she would not tell it to anyone but yourself.' "I thought all this very queer. He wouldn't tell anyone but me what his message was, and when I came to hear what it was, there was nothing in it he mightn't tell anyone. For what harm could there be in my going to see a woman, or in his asking me to go to see her? Then I thought to myself, I won't stir a step with this bad-looking boy, and I said: 'Tell the woman that sent you I don't know her. If she knew me she'd have told you her name, and why couldn't she have come herself?' "'I don't know any of these things. She certainly did tell me one thing that I forgot, and it was that if you came and heard what she had to say, it would do a whole lot of good to your master and mistress.' "When he said this I began to think: 'Maybe 'tis some secret about the bank my old master lost all his money in, and no matter how ragged or dirty the boy may be, it is not my place to throw away any chance there may be of my master or his son getting back some of their money.' "So I said to the boy: 'Wait here till I get my bonnet and shawl,' and with that I went upstairs to the room in which the child lay. He was wide awake. He would always go to sleep by himself, but never in the dark. So when I came down to my tea I left the lamp alight on the table. "I told the child I was going out, and if he'd be a good boy and promise not to get out of bed or go near the lamp, I'd turn it up higher. He promised not to stir. I took my shawl and bonnet, and came down. "When I got to the kitchen the ragged boy was sitting on one of the chairs, although I had told him to stay where he was. "I turned down the kitchen lamp, took the key out of the door, and pulled the door after me. The door shuts with a spring-latch, and there was no occasion to lock it. "The woman's messenger brought me along some streets I was never in before, until he came to a cross-road where there was a great deal of light and a lot of public-houses. "He pointed out one, and said it was there the woman was. I said I wouldn't go in, that I did not go into public-houses, and he said: 'Well, wait a minute, and I'll tell her you're here.' "He ran in, and in a moment came out with a woman as dirty and as ill-looking as himself, and she said: 'Why, Bridget, won't you come in and have a glass?' "I said: 'No, I won't; I never go into such places.' I did not know her voice or her looks. And I didn't like her voice or her looks, and I wanted to have nothing to do with her. But when I heard her call me Bridget as if she knew me all her life, and when I thought of the master and the mistress and their money that was lost, I felt I must anyway listen to what she had to say. I saw her give the boy some money. Then he ran away. "Then she asked me if I'd walk down a bit of the street with her, and I said I would, but that she must be quick in saying all she had to say to me. "By this time we had got out of the broad road and were in a kind of lane, with walls, and trees growing over the walls on each side. "She said she heard I was in a good situation, and that my old master had been very kind to me and had given me many presents. And with that we came under a lamp, and she said: 'I know you're in a hurry back. What I have to say to you won't take a minute, and I'll show you a short cut home. But while we're near the light, would you mind telling me the time?' "I took out my watch, which was one of the presents the old master had given me, and looked at it. There were two lanes crossing here. When I looked at my watch it was a quarter past seven. I got a great start to think I was out so long. I told her the hour, and said: 'Show me the short cut, and tell me what you have to say at once.' "'That's the short cut,' said she, pointing straight on, and before I knew what was happening, she made a snatch at my watch, and ran down the cross lane as fast as she could. "The chain did not break. She was a younger and lighter woman than I am, and I knew I could not overtake her if I tried, and before I could think of anything, I lost sight of her in the darkness. "When I got back, which wasn't for more than an hour, I saw the house was on fire, and remembering all about the lamp and the child, I thought he must have turned it over, and set fire to the place. I hadn't the courage to stay, knowing what I had done. So I went away as fast as I could, and stopped away until now." When the nurse had ceased speaking, the inspector said nothing beyond: "The whole thing seems to have been a clumsy dodge to steal your watch." This explanation did not fully satisfy the inspector's mind, and he resolved to put the woman's story aside until he had more opportunity of thinking over it. O'Donnell was once more pacing up and down. The flames were almost subdued. It was now past midnight, and the crowd, which had collected to see the fire, had gradually melted away. O'Donnell, seeing that the inspector had turned from the nurse, approached him, and said: "There can no longer be the faintest hope. There can no longer be an excuse for hope. Do you not think so?" "In all cases of the kind," said the inspector, softly and sadly, "it is impossible to be sure until we have positive evidence. The nurse has told me her story, and if it is true, I am afraid we must be prepared for the worst." "Then my boy is dead!" cried O'Donnell, in anguish. "For I am sure old Bridget would not tell a lie to save her life. My boy! My little boy! This will kill his mother! My only fear is that it will not kill me." At that moment a man stepped quickly through the line of policemen, which was no longer very strictly kept. He put his hand on O'Donnell's shoulder and said softly: "I recognised your voice, Eugene. I heard what you said." "Fraser, this is awful!" "It is a dreadful blow, my dear fellow, a dreadful blow! I went home. I have been greatly excited since, and in my excitement, I am ashamed to say I forgot you for a moment, and told the man to drive me home. My wife was not at the theatre; and, until she said something to me about you, I did not realise the fact that you might have worse news than the burning down of your house." "Ay, I have the worst that we could have expected from the news Lavirotte brought." "Has anyone been here from the theatre?" "No. I have seen no one I knew since I left." "Then you have not heard what has happened?" "No." "In the second act Lavirotte fell insensible on the stage, and we had to drop the curtain and stop the piece." "Good heavens! What a night of disasters! How is he?" "He recovered in a short time, and in spite of all we could do, and all the doctor could say to the contrary, insisted on being driven to Porter Street. He would allow no one of the company but Jephson to go with him. As you say, it was a night of disasters; but, my dear Eugene, yours is far the worst." "Mr. Fraser," said a new voice, "do you know anything of O'Donnell?" "Yes, Jephson. He is here." "Where?" said Jephson. "Here," repeated Fraser, putting his hand on O'Donnell. "I did not recognise you. I suppose you have told him what has happened, Fraser?" "Yes," said O'Donnell. "How is Lavirotte?" "Dying," answered Jephson. "He cannot last till daylight, and he says he cannot die without seeing you. Can you come with me to him?" O'Donnell moved over to the inspector, and asked: "When can we be quite certain of the worst?" "Not until after daylight," answered the inspector. "Then I will go with you, Jephson. He is the dearest friend I have in the world, and I will not see my wife again until the evidence is complete."