When Jephson and O'Donnell were in the cab, the latter said: "Dying! dying! Dominique dying! And Mark dead! My little Mark dead! Good God, what a night! Today, Jephson, this morning when I set out for the theatre there was no thought of grief in my mind, no forethought of misfortune. And now, here are misfortunes so thick upon us, that one cannot see them altogether. I suppose Fraser is ruined? I thought of that at the time I was speaking to him. But it seemed to me it would be no kindness to mention the matter to him just then." "I don't think, O'Donnell, to-night's misfortunes at the theatre will seriously hurt Fraser. Of course, under the circumstances of you and Lavirotte being disqualified, the opera must be postponed for some time, until you, at all events, have recovered to-night's shock sufficiently to sing the part." "I shall never sing the part," said O'Donnell, "that cost me my little child." Then the two men were silent for a long time, until they reached Porter Street. Here Jephson said: "It is as well you should be prepared for a great change in Lavirotte. You will hardly know him. I never saw such a change come over a man in a few hours. At the theatre he went through what he did of the part with the greatest dash and go. He never sang better; he never acted better at any rehearsal. The whole thing was going capitally. We were in the highest spirits. The audience were enthusiastic. Everyone was called after the first act. If Lavirotte had only got through that heavy scene in the second act, I do not believe he would have broken down. But it was too much for him. When he came back to consciousness he behaved like a lunatic. When he was told that the audience had to be dismissed he tore his hair, and swore and stamped like a man possessed. He would not go to any place but that hideous old tower of his. He would not let anyone go with him but me, not even the doctor, who said he was in an exceedingly dangerous condition. "When we got to the tower, he had to rest twenty times in getting to the horrible place where he sleeps. And when at last we reached the loft, he fainted again; and when he came quickly back to consciousness he would not let me put him to bed, but threw himself in his stage dress on the couch, and seemed to concentrate all his attention on listening. He was very quiet now, but still I think his reason is gone, for although there was not a sound, he kept leaning up on his elbow now and then, asking me: 'Did you hear the boy's voice? Did you hear him call?' "He meant, you see, the call-boy's voice. I tried to soothe him, and told him that we were no longer at the theatre, and not to worry himself with thinking of the call-boy's voice. At this he smiled, but said nothing. He did this five or six times. Then, when after a long time he asked me to go for you, I reminded him that you were in great trouble, that your house was on fire, and that the last we knew of you was what he himself told us, of the possible loss or danger of your boy. "Then again he asked me: 'Did you hear the boy call?' And I said: 'No. You will not hear the boy call again to-night.' At this he not only smiled, but laughed, and said: 'You will go for Eugene at once. He will not think me mad. He is my dearest friend.'" "My poor, poor Dominique!" cried Eugene. "He was godfather to my little boy that's gone." "I was afraid to leave him alone, but there was something in his manner I could not resist. This is the tower. I have taken the key with me. There is a lantern alight inside. Get in. Mind yourself there. Wait till I lock the door on the inside. Let me go first. There. Can you see the rungs? Stop, you will never be able to get up the ladder in that overcoat. Take it off, and put it down on those boards." "But I, too, have my stage dress on." "Never mind. So has he. Take off the overcoat. There, that is better. This is the loft. Lavirotte, are you awake?" "Yes, more wakeful than I have been for many a day. God bless you, Eugene, for coming. I have not much time now. I am waiting for the call. Eugene, do you hear the boy call?" "No, no, Dominique, my dear friend. Keep yourself quiet, and you will hear the boy call when you have had a few days' rest, when you come back from the sea." Eugene, in his stage costume, crossed the floor, and bending over his old friend, who lay pallid on the couch, in his stage costume, sat by his side and took Dominique's hand in his. "I am not going to the sea, Eugene. I am going to the Ocean. Bear with me a little while." Jephson drew back, and stood beside the ladder which led to the loft above. "Bear with me, Eugene. I have a confession to make. Do not interrupt me. Excitement gives me pain now. You have come to me in the deepest depth of your own affliction to say a kind word to me in my last moments. You have lost your boy." "All hope is not yet gone." "You have lost your boy, and you have come to touch the hand of Dominique, while yet it can be conscious of that touch. You have come to close my eyes for ever." "My dear, dear Dominique!" "Do not interrupt me. I have a confession to make. I have been jealous of you all my life, ever since I knew you. I need not tell you all that you already know. I have plotted against you with devilish cunning, cunning too deep and despicable for you ever to suspect. I could not bear that you should sing the part. I swore you never should. I took care you should not sing the part. Let me tell you what happened after I left the theatre. I came here. I then looked calm. But I was mad. I had money in my pocket, and I bribed a wretch even almost as vile as myself to decoy the nurse of your child away from your house. "I was close by when this was done. A few minutes after, your house was discovered in flames. I brought you word at the theatre that your house was burning, and nothing was known of your boy." "Oh God! Oh God! Dominique! And while the woman was away the child overturned the lamp, and he is dead!" "Yes, Eugene, I do not wonder at your starting away from me. But hear me out. Hear me to the end. The boy did not overturn the lamp… I overturned the lamp." "You!You! Which of us is mad? If I am sane, why should I not strangle you as you lie?" Eugene was now at the other side of the table, leaning on it, and looking stupidly at the prostrate man. "Because, Eugene, I asked you to hear me out, and the last wish of a dying man is sacred." "Dying man! Dying monster! Dying murderer! Where is my child?" For an instant Lavirotte's hand moved under the couch on which he lay. He suddenly raised it. There was a flash, a loud report, that seemed to shake the walls of the tower. Jephson sprang from where he stood. O'Donnell never moved. The pistol fell from Lavirotte's hand to the ground. He rose quickly from the couch, and, drawing himself up to his full height, stood on the other side of the table, facing Eugene. O'Donnell, too, drew himself up to his full height, and stared across the table at the other. Lavirotte raised his right hand on high, and, pointing with his finger aloft, said: "Did you hear the boy call?" Jephson, who still stood close to the foot of the ladder, whispered in a thick voice: "Don't touch him. He is only mad." Lavirotte still stood, drawn up to his full height, in his stage costume, with his right hand thrust upward, and his forefinger pointing aloft. There was a silence which no mind could measure, and then a sound that made the cold sweat break out on Jephson and O'Donnell. "Did you hear the boy call?" whispered Lavirotte. Suddenly the right arm relaxed and fell to Lavirotte's side. His eyes left O'Donnell's face, and were fixed on a corner of the tower to the left. "Did you hear the boy call?" he repeated. "I would not let you sing that song the other day, Eugene, but you have heard the boy call, and I must answer." Almost imperceptibly he began lifting his left arm towards the left corner of the tower, where his eyes were fixed, and through which the ladder passed into the floor above. "I must answer this call. I must sing. I did not murder your boy. I stole him, that I might have the first call to-night. You heard The Last Call. I must answer the last call." Then in a voice which had never been firmer or truer, he sang the first line and a half of the "Bard's Legacy:"

"When in death I shall calm recline,

Oh, bear my heart-"

He placed his right hand upon his left breast, still keeping his left hand rigid. "I can sing no more. Look." Turning their eyes in the direction he indicated, they saw descending from the loft above the figure of a small child, in white. "The bank is broken," said Lavirotte, "but the treasure has been found here. Take him back to her, Eugene. Close my eyes. This is all I can do towards answering The Last Call." Before he fell, Eugene caught him in his arms, laid him gently on the couch, and closed the eyes.