Yorke went in. Finetta was lying on the sofa, lying with that awful inert look which tells its own story. Her shapely arm hung down limply, helplessly; across her face, white as death, a thin line of blood trickled, coming again as fast as the trembling dresser wiped it away. One or two women stood near her, silent and apprehensive.

She lifted her eyes heavily and tried to smile.

"I—I thought you would come," she said painfully. "I saw you in the stalls."

Yorke bent over her, all the anger sped from his heart.

"Are you hurt, Fin?" he said in a low voice.

"Yes," she said. "Badly, I think. Some—some fool left the trap unbolted; or—" a gleam of fire shot into her eyes for a moment—"or was it done on purpose, eh? There's one or two here who wouldn't be sorry to have me out of the bills. Well, they'll have their wish for a short time."

"Have you sent for a doctor?" Yorke asked the manager.

He nodded.

"Doctor! I don't want any doctor here," said Finetta sharply. "I want to go home. Take me home, Yorke. Never mind what they say. Take me home, if you have to do it on a stretcher."

"Very well," he said.

The manager drew him outside.

"You can't do it, I'm afraid, my lord. She's too hurt to be moved."

"Don't listen to him, Yorke!" Finetta's voice came to them. "Take me home."

A long slight table stood in the passage. Yorke wrenched the legs off and called to a couple of carpenters. Then, with the help of the manager and dresser, he laid Finetta on this impromptu stretcher and carried her to the brougham which was waiting outside.

"Drive slowly," he said to the man.

"No, let him go fast," panted Finetta. "I can bear it," and she clenched her teeth. Yorke sat beside her and supported her, and she lay with her head on his shoulder, her teeth set hard, her hands grasping each other, and no cry or groan passed her lips.

At the sound of the brougham wheels Polly came to the door, and uttered a cry of alarm at the sight of her sister lying limp and helpless in Yorke's arms.

"Oh, Lord Yorke!" she gasped.

"Don't be frightened, Polly," he said. "Finetta has met with an accident."

They carried her upstairs.

"Get her undressed and into bed," he said. "I'm going for a doctor."

"You—you will come back, Yorke?" Finetta managed to say.

"Of course," he said. "Keep up your heart, Fin. You'll be all right."

He got the doctor, and while he was upstairs making his examination Yorke paced up and down the sumptuous dining-room in which he had spent so many pleasant, merry hours.

It seemed an age before the doctor came down.

"Well?" asked Yorke anxiously.

The doctor looked down with the professional gravity.

"She is very badly hurt," he said. "Oh, no," he added, seeing Yorke start and wince. "I don't say that it will kill her, but—you see she struck the edge of the trap with her back. I think I should like to have Sir Andrew."

"Yes, yes!" said Yorke. "I will send for him at once——."

"Oh, to-morrow will do, my lord," said the doctor. "He could do no more for her than I can accomplish, and she is—unfortunately—in very little pain. But there seems to be something on her mind, something in which your lordship is concerned, and she is very anxious to see you."

"I will go to her," said Yorke at once.

They went upstairs, and Finetta turned her great eyes upon them.

"What has he been telling you, Yorke?" she asked feebly. "Am I going to die? Don't be afraid, I'm not a milksop, and I shan't go into hysterics and make a scene. I suppose I've got to die, as well as other people."

"No, no, there is no talk of dying, Fin," he said.

"Then what is it? Why do you both look so glum?" she said, impatiently. "There's nothing much in falling down a trap: I've seen heaps of people do it. What is it? Am I going to be laid up long? Ask him how soon I shall be able to dance again?"

"Better be quiet," said the doctor, with his hand on her pulse.

"You answer my question," she retorted as furiously as her weakness would allow.

"I'll answer any questions you like to-morrow," he said soothingly. "I want you to rest now."

"They're all like that—a pack of old women," she said, "and they think we're all old women too! Rest! ah, if he could give me something that would make me rest——. Don't go, Yorke; not yet. I—I want to say something to you. It's a long time since you were here, Yorke," and she sighed.

He sat down beside the bed and held her hand, and she turned her eyes upon him gratefully, then averted them and groaned faintly.

"Did I hurt you, Fin?" he asked.

"No, no!" she replied. "It wasn't that. It—it was something I was thinking of."

"You mustn't talk," said the doctor.

She opened her lips and grinned at him contemptuously.

"Why mustn't I? Do you think I am going off my head? Well, there—but don't leave me, or if you do, come again to-morrow, Yorke," and she turned her head away and closed her eyes.

Yorke sat beside her through the night, holding her hand. At times she seemed to fall into an uneasy slumber, from which she would wake and look from him to Polly with a vacant gaze which grew troubled when it rested on his face, and then she would sigh and close her eyes again. Toward morning she fell into a deep sleep, and Yorke went home, but only remained long enough to change his clothes, and returned to St. John's Wood. He found Sir Andrew there, and the great man greeted him with a significant gravity; but before he could speak Finetta turned her eyes to Yorke.

"Ask him to tell me the truth of the case, Yorke!" she said, in a voice much weaker than that of last night. "I'm not afraid. He says I'm not going to die; but ask him how soon I shall get back to the Diadem!"

Sir Andrew smiled, but it was the smile which masks the face of the physician while he pronounces sentence.

"Not yet awhile, my dear young lady," he said.

"Not yet—ah!" She tried to sit up, but sank back and fixed her dark bold eyes on him. "You mean! What is it you mean? Not—not——," her voice quivered and broke. "Oh, God, you mean that I shall never dance again!"

The doctor looked down. She read his answer in his face, and silenced Sir Andrew's conventional protest.

"You—you needn't lie. I—I can see it in your faces. Oh!" and a low but heart-breaking cry rose from her white lips. "Oh, never, never again! Never to dance again! Oh, Yorke, Yorke, tell them to kill me! I'd rather die—rather, ten thousand times rather! Never to dance again. It isn't true," she burst out, her tone changed to weak fury and resentment. "You don't know. You can't tell. Doctors are fools, all of 'em. Send them away, Yorke. I hate the sight of them standing there like a couple of undertakers. What, not to dance again! It's a lie! It's a——." Then she covered her face with her hands, and her whole body shook and trembled.

The paroxysms passed, and she drew a long breath and put out her hand to Yorke.

"It's true," she said, in a faint voice, "I feel it. Don't—don't mind what I said, gentlemen. It—it's knocked me rather hard. You see, I've got nothing to—to live for but my dancing. I'm—I'm nothing without that. Oh, God, what an end! To lie here——," she turned her head away and groaned.

Yorke held her hand in silence.

What could he say? The doctors went; the morning passed; he sat and held Finetta's hand as she dozed heavily.

Every now and then she stirred and opened her eyes, saw and recognized him, and with a sigh closed them again, as if his presence soothed and comforted her.

He left her in the middle of the day, promising to return in a few hours. He was to be married in two days time, and there were things to be done and settled. He found a letter from Lady Eleanor awaiting him—a loving, passionate letter, reminding him of some trifle in connection with their wedding trip. He put it in his pocket, scarcely read, and in the afternoon returned to Finetta. Her eyes turned to the door with painful, feverish eagerness as he entered, and she smiled gratefully and yet, as it seemed to him, with a curious mixture of fear and sadness.

"You—you are very good to me, Yorke," she said. "Better—better than I deserve."

"All right, Fin," he said, pressing her hand. "You'd do the same for me; old friends, you know."

"Yes," she said, "old friends." She was silent a moment or two, then with an effort she said, "Yorke, I've got something to tell you. And—and I think I'd rather die than say it."

"Don't say it then," he said promptly. "What's it matter? You've got to keep quiet, the doctor said——."

"But I've got to say it," she broke in with a moan. "I can't sleep or rest while it's on my mind. You can't guess what it is, Yorke?"

"No. Never mind. Let it slide till you get better, Fin."

She shook her head as well as she could.

"That would be a long time to keep it," she said. "Yorke, what brought you to the theater last night?"

He started slightly. It might almost be said that he had forgotten the diamond pendant, which was still in his waistcoat pocket.

"Why, I came to see you, of course," he replied.

"Yes," she said, her large eyes fixed on his. "Yes, but why? I saw your face, Yorke, and there was mischief in it. I saw that you had found out something, if not all."

"Found out what?" he asked carelessly. "Oh, you mean about the pendant? What made you send it back, Fin?"

She looked at him with a puzzled frown.

"What pendant? What are you talking about?"

"The diamond ornament you sent back," he said. "But there, don't worry——."

"Diamonds I sent back? Is that likely? But what diamonds? You never gave me any."

He tried to smile banteringly; he thought her mind was wandering.

"Never mind. There!" He took the pendant from his pocket and laid it in her hand. "Take it back again, and keep it this time."

She looked at it, and from it to him.

"I never sent this to you—I never saw it before," she said.

"All right, it doesn't matter——."

"Never! You say you gave it to me. When? When?"

"I sent it to you the night—the day after we parted," he said.

Her eyes dilated, and she put her hand to her head.

"You—sent this—this to me? You must be out of your mind, or I am. And you say I sent it back!"

"Look here, Fin," he said soothingly, "I know what it is you want to say to me, and I want to save you the trouble and worry of saying it, so I will tell you that I know all, and that I forgive you, if that's what you want."

Her face twitched, and her eyes fell from his.

"You know all!" she faltered.

He nodded gravely.

"Yes. And I'll own up that I was mad. I came to the theater last night to have a row with you. But that's all past, clean past. And after all you didn't do me any damage, Fin—not the damage you meant to," he corrected himself as the thought of his coming marriage flashed across him. "It would have been all up a tree with me if a—a friend hadn't found the money at the last moment; but as it turned out we got the best of you and your friend, Mr. Ralph Duncombe."

She gazed at him with knitted brows.

"Mr. Ralph who? I never heard the name before. What are you talking about?" she demanded.

"Never mind."

"Answer! Tell me!" she broke out. "Explain what you are driving at, or I shall go clean mad."

He bit his lip.

"Why don't you let it rest?" he said wearily. "I tell you I'm ready to forget it, that I've forgiven you. After all it was tit for tat, and only natural. And it was clever, too, in a way. Did you think of it yourself, Fin, or did this strange gentleman, this new friend of yours, hit upon the idea of buying up my debts and hunting me into a corner——."

He stopped, for with a tremendous effort she had raised herself.

"Stop!" she panted. "This—this is all new to me. I know nothing of it. It's not that I wanted to tell you about. Not that. I never bought your debts. I never heard this man's name before in my life. Ah"—for his face had gone white—"you believe me! It wasn't me who planned that."

"Not you? Then who?"

She fell back.

"Ah," she breathed, "I—I can guess. Oh, Yorke, this you have told me makes it all the harder for me. But I must tell you. It weighs on my heart like—like lead. Ever since I fell, all the while I've been lying here her face has haunted me. I see it waking and sleeping, all white and drawn, with the tears running down it as it was when I told her."

"Whose—whose face? Whose?" he said, a vague presentiment mingling with his amazement and confusion.

"The young lady's—Leslie Lisle's," she gasped.

He sprang to his feet, then sank into the chair again, and sat breathing hard for a moment.

She waited till she had regained strength, then hurried on.

"It was me who—who separated you. Yorke, wait, don't—don't speak. It—it was a chance that helped me. I'd followed you to that place, Portmaris, and I was caught by the tide, and she tried to save me, and we climbed the cliff, and when I fainted she found the locket with your portrait in my bosom. See," and she drew the locket out and held it to him.

He took it mechanically and uttered a cry—a terrible cry.

"I gave you this! It's false! You stole it! Oh, Fin, forgive me—forgive me, but I feel as if I were going mad!" and he covered his face with his hands.

She let her hand rest on his arm timidly.

"Hold on!" she panted. "Let me tell you all as it happened. The tangle's coming straight. There's—there's been some devil's work besides mine! She saw the portrait and—and recognized it. I told her that you'd given it to me—as you had——."

"No, no! I sent it to her the same day as I sent this thing to you."

She gazed at him perplexedly for a moment; then she laughed a mirthless laugh.

"My God!" she said, "I see! You put them in the wrong papers! and I thought you—you cared for me still; and—and I told her so. And she believed it!"

"You told her—she believed it!"

"Yes," she panted hoarsely. "She believed it, and gave you up! She couldn't do otherwise after finding that locket and—and the lies I told her. I said you were going to marry me——."

She stopped and looked at his face, white and set.

"You—you could kill me even as I lie here, Yorke," she said, in a dull, despairing voice. "I can see it in your eyes."

He turned his eyes away.

"Go—go on!" he said, almost inarticulately.

She put her hand to her brow.

"I left her there, looking more dead than alive, and came back to town, and I thought you'd come back to me. I—I waited, and one day I saw you in Hancock's buying the—the ring; and I knew she'd taken you back, and all in the moment I—I told her, and then I got frightened at what I'd done. And when I saw that she had managed to do what I had failed over, and had separated you from Leslie Lisle and got you for herself——."

He rose and stretched out his hands to her as if he would stop her.

"Her? Who?"

"Who?" she opened her eyes upon him. "Why, Lady Eleanor Dallas! It's she you are going to marry, isn't it?"

He went to the mantel shelf and dropped his head upon his arms; then he came back and sank into the chair again with his hands thrust into his pockets, his head upon his breast.

"It's—it's a bad business, Yorke," she panted wearily. "But—but don't be too hard on me, or on her. For she loves you, Yorke! Ah! that's been the trouble all round; we've all loved you too well!" and she turned her face away and closed her eyes.

He sat and stared before him like a man dazed. For one moment he had felt convinced that Finetta's disclosure was the outcome of delirium; but as she had gone on with her confession, he knew that she was speaking of realities.

They had misjudged Leslie after all; she had not left him because she had discovered that he was not a duke! The reflection was the only one relieving streak of light in the gloom. What should he do? What could he do? Where was Leslie? And even if he found her, how could he desert Lady Eleanor? How could he throw her over on the very eve of their wedding day? She had not sinned against him, as Finetta had done; her only sin, as Finetta had so truly said, consisted in loving him too well. No, even if he knew where Leslie Lisle was, he could not desert Eleanor. He must marry her and try—as he had been trying all this time—to tear Leslie's image from his heart. But, ah, how much harder this feat had become since Finetta's disclosure.

She looked round at last.

"You are still here, Yorke," she said. "You haven't gone? I thought—I thought you'd have left me directly, and that I shouldn't have seen you again."

He laughed, scarcely knowing what he did.

"Not much use in that, Fin," he said drearily, hopelessly. "You acted like—well, like a woman, I suppose——."

"Oh!" she moaned. "I acted like a demon. I hadn't any pity, any mercy! I watched her getting whiter and whiter—I heard her cry out as if I'd stabbed her——."

He put up his hand to silence her.

"That—that will do, Fin!" he said hoarsely.

"But I should have given in to her and kept back the lies if you hadn't sent me this."

She put her hand to her bosom and drew out the locket. "That gave me the pluck and the obstinacy. I thought after all you cared for me——." She stopped. "It was a mistake all round, and—and—so I don't care to keep it any longer. Take it, Yorke."

He shook his head; but she put the locket in his hand.

"Do you think I'd keep it now I know you didn't mean it for me, but for her? Not me! Take it and—well, give me the other."

He suffered her to close his hand over the locket; and she took the pendant and laid it on the pillow.

"I know now why she put her hand to her bosom once or twice; this was lying there. Poor girl! Yes, I can be sorry for her, for I knew what she felt. But it's too late now, Yorke, I suppose. You've got to marry Lady Eleanor, eh? Well," as he remained silent, "let's hope that poor young thing has forgotten you!"

Yorke got up and strode up and down, biting his lip and shutting and opening his hands.

"Better go now, Yorke," she said with a sigh. "I know you hate the sight of me; that's only natural——."

"No, no, Fin!" he said with a frown. "I'm not so bad as that; but I feel confused and half mad. God forgive us all, we all seem to have conspired to work her harm! Even Dolph—and I who loved her! Yes, I'd better go, Fin; but I will come back——."

"No, you won't," she said quietly, "at least, not till after your marriage. But, Yorke——."

"Well?" he asked.

"If—if you should ever find her—Miss Lisle," she said, in a low, hesitating voice, "I wish—I wish you'd tell her I'd made a clean breast of it; and—and ask her to come and see me. She'd come; she's one of that sort of women that are always ready to forgive; and she'll forgive me right enough when she sees me lying here helpless as a log, and remembers how hard I fought beside her up that beastly cliff that day! Go now, Yorke, and—well, I don't know that God would bless you any the sooner for my asking Him. But you have been very easy with me, Yorke, after all I've done to make you wretched."

Her voice died away inaudibly at the last words, and she took the hand he gave her and laid it on her lips.

Yorke went out with the locket in his hand, and a burning fire in his heart and brain.

This butterfly o' the wind, this dancing girl, had wrecked Leslie's and his lives! Wrecked and ruined them irreparably. She had spoken of his finding Leslie; but where could he look for her, and, indeed, would it not be better that they should never meet again? He had got to marry Eleanor—and the day after to-morrow; Finetta's confession—like most confessions by the way—had come too late!

In a frame of mind which beggars description he went to Bury Street and resumed his packing; then, in the midst of it, he remembered that he had promised to go to White Place that evening.

This butterfly o' the wind, this dancing girl, had wrecked his life! As he thought of this, he found the locket in his pocket, and transferred it to that of the waistcoat he was putting on.