ps. It was but too plainly useless
to speak to her. Her head lay back on the rail of the chair. She
seemed to be half asleep already. The flush on her face had deepened:
she looked like a woman who was in danger of having a fit.

He rang the bell, and directed the man who answered it to send one of
the chambermaids upstairs. His voice seemed to partially rouse the
Countess; she opened her eyes in a slow drowsy way. 'Have you read
it?' she asked.

It was necessary as a mere act of humanity to humour her. 'I will read
it willingly,' said Henry, 'if you will go upstairs to bed. You shall
hear what I think of it to-morrow morning. Our heads will be clearer,
we shall be better able to make the fourth act in the morning.'

The chambermaid came in while he was speaking. 'I am afraid the lady
is ill,' Henry whispered. 'Take her up to her room.' The woman looked
at the Countess and whispered back, 'Shall we send for a doctor, sir?'

Henry advised taking her upstairs first, and then asking the manager's
opinion. There was great difficulty in persuading her to rise, and
accept the support of the chambermaid's arm. It was only by reiterated
promises to read the play that night, and to make the fourth act in the
morning, that Henry prevailed on the Countess to return to her room.

Left to himself, he began to feel a certain languid curiosity in
relation to the manuscript. He looked over the pages, reading a line
here and a line there. Suddenly he changed colour as he read--and
looked up from the manuscript like a man bewildered. 'Good God! what
does this mean?' he said to himself.

His eyes turned nervously to the door by which Agnes had left him. She
might return to the drawing-room, she might want to see what the
Countess had written. He looked back again at the passage which had
startled him--considered with himself for a moment--and, snatching up
the unfinished play, suddenly and softly left the room.

CHAPTER XXVI

Entering his own room on the upper floor, Henry placed the manuscript
on his table, open at the first leaf. His nerves were unquestionably
shaken; his hand trembled as he turned the pages, he started at chance
noises on the staircase of the hotel.

The scenario, or outline, of the Countess's play began with no formal
prefatory phrases. She presented herself and her work with the easy
familiarity of an old friend.

'Allow me, dear Mr. Francis Westwick, to introduce to you the persons
in my pr