almost to hear again
the echoes of that despairing cry which had rung out so plaintively
across the desert of empty benches from somewhere amongst the shadows
of the auditorium. Several times during the performance he had glanced
up in the same direction; once he had almost fancied he could see a
solitary, bent figure sitting rigid and motionless in the first row of
the amphitheatre. No man was possessed of a smaller share of curiosity
in the ordinary sense of the word than Matravers; but the thought
that this might be the same man come again to witness a play which had
appealed to him before with such peculiar potency, interested him
curiously. At the close of the second act he left his seat, and, after
several times losing his way, found himself in the little narrow space
behind the amphitheatre. Leaning over the partition, and looking
downwards, he had a good view of the man who sat there quite alone,
his head resting upon his hand, his eyes fixed steadily upon a soiled
and crumpled programme, which was spread out carefully before him.
Matravers wondered whether there was not in the clumsy figure and
awkward pose something vaguely familiar to him.

An attendant of the place standing by his side addressed him
respectfully.

"Not much of a house for the last night, sir," he remarked.

Matravers agreed, and moved his head downwards towards the solitary
figure.

"There is one man, at least," he said, "who finds the play
interesting."

The attendant smiled.

"I am afraid that the gentleman is a little bit 'hoff,' sir. He seems
half silly to talk to. He's a queer sort, anyway. Comes here every
blessed night, and in the same place. Never misses. Once he came
sixpence short, and there was a rare fuss. They wouldn't let him in,
and he wouldn't go away. I lent it him at last."

"Did he pay you back?" Matravers asked.

"The very next night; never had to ask him, either. There goes the
bell, sir. Curtain up in two minutes."

The subject of their conversation had not once turned his head or
moved towards them. Matravers, conscious that he was not likely to do
so, returned to his seat just as the curtain rose upon the last act.
The play, grim, pessimistic, yet lifted every now and then to a higher
level by strange flashes of genius on the part of the woman, dragged
wearily along to an end. The echoes of her last speech died away; she
looked at him across the footlights, her dark eyes soft with many
regrets, which, co