lting indecision.
Puritan to the core, he yet had proved true to his Slavonic birthright.

As he left the stage with _Senta_ at the end of the second act, a
messenger handed him a card.

"The gentleman is waiting," he added. "He said he must see you, and that
he was in a hurry."

Thayer glanced at the card.

"Bring him to my dressing-room," he said.

He glanced up in surprise, as the door opened and Bobby Dane entered. He
had expected to see Bobby, immaculate in evening clothes, come strolling
lazily in to congratulate him, as he had so often done before when
Thayer had sung in cities near New York. Instead, Bobby was still in
morning dress, and his face and manner betokened some great excitement.

"I only heard your duet," he said abruptly; "but they are saying you
have outdone yourself. Will it break up your part, if I tell you some
news?"

Thayer paled suddenly.

"Is Beatrix--"

"No; but the boy died at six o'clock, this afternoon. I went to the
house; but I found there was nothing I could do, so I caught the seven
o'clock train and came up to tell you. Sure it won't upset your
singing?"

Thayer shook his head impatiently.

"I've borne worse shocks, Dane, and gone on warbling as if nothing had
happened. Did Beatrix send for me?"

"No. I only saw her for a minute. But I thought perhaps you would like
to go to her at once. She may need you."

Thayer held out his hand.

"This is like you, Dane. Thank you," he said briefly, as his man came to
warn him that _The Dutchman's_ crew had begun their chorus.

Bobby followed him into the wings.

"There's a train down at two o'clock," he suggested. "Shall we take
that?"

"The sooner, the better."

"I'll get the places, then, and meet you at the hotel afterwards." And
Bobby departed, just as the strings and wind gave out their
announcement of _The Dutchman's_ presence.

In the years to come, Thayer never knew how he went through that final
scene. It was the automatic obedience of an artistic nature to its years
of careful training. He was conscious of hearing no note from the
orchestra, no sound from his own lips. His whole being was centred in
the thought that at last Beatrix was free; that, in her final freedom,
they must face the ultimate crisis of their destinies. Would it be for
weal, or for woe? His brain refused to give back answer to the question.
And, meanwhile, the close-packed audience was thrilling with the
passionate pain of his accepted doo