ordinary
carrying quality of her voice--the question was heard by every one
there present:

"_You_ wrote the play? _You_ wrote the play?"

She said it twice. She seemed to quiver, to gather herself together,
her hands bent, her arms lifted. She flew at Prosper with all the
sudden strength of her insanity.

There was an outcry, a confusion. People rushed to Gael's assistance.
Men caught hold of Joan, now struggling frantically. It was a dreadful
sight, mercifully a brief one. She collapsed utterly, fell forward,
the strap of her gown breaking in the grasp of one of the men who held
her. For an instant every one in the audience saw a strange double
scar that ran across her shoulder to the edge of the shoulder-blade.
It was like two bars.

Pierre got to his feet, dropped back, and hid his face. Then he was
up, and struggling past excited people down the row, out into the
aisle, along it, hurrying blindly down unknown passages till somehow
he got himself into that confused labyrinth behind the scenes. Here a
pale, distracted scene-shifter informed him that Miss West had already
been taken home.

Pierre got the address, found his way out to the street, hailed a
taxicab, and threw himself into it. He sat forward, every muscle
tight; he felt that he could take the taxicab up and hurl it forward,
so terrible was his impatience.

An apartment house was a greater novelty to him even than a theater,
but, after a dazed moment of discovering that he did not have to ring
or knock, but just push open the great iron-scrolled door and step
into the brightly lighted, steam-heated marble hall, he decided that
the woman at the desk was a person in authority, and to her he
addressed himself, soft hat gripped in his hand, his face set to hide
excitement.

The girl was pale and red-eyed. They had brought Miss West in a few
minutes ago, she told him, and carried her up. She was still
unconscious; poor thing! "I don't think you could see her, sir. Mr.
Morena is up there, and Mr. Gael, and a doctor. A trained nurse has
been sent for. Everything in the world will be done. She's such an
elegant actress, ain't she? I've often seen her myself. And so kind
and pleasant always. Yes, sir. I'll ask, if you like, but I'm sure
they won't allow you up."

She put the receiver to her ear, pushed in the black plug, and Pierre
listened to her questions.

"Can Miss West see any one? Can an old friend"--for so Pierre had
named himself--"be allowed