The curtain fell, and while the applause rose and died down and rose

again, and the people called for "Jane West! Jane West!" the

stage-director, a plump little Jew, came out behind the footlights and

held up his hand. There was a gradual silence.

"I want to make an interesting announcement," he said; "the author of

'The Leopardess' has hitherto maintained his anonymity, but to-night I

have permission to give you his name. He is in the theater to-night.

The name is already familiar to you as that of the author of a popular

novel, 'The Cañon': Prosper Gael."

There was a stir of interest, a general searching of the house,

clapping, cries of "Author! Author!" and in a few moments Prosper Gael

left his box and appeared beside the director in answer to the calls.

He was entirely self-possessed, looked even a little bored, but he was

very white. He stood there bowing, a graceful and attractive figure,

and he was about to begin a speech when he was interrupted by a

renewed calling for "Jane West!" The audience wanted to see the star

and the author side by side. Pierre joined in the clamor.

After a little pause Jane West came out from the opposite wing,

walking slowly, dressed in her green gown, jewels on her neck and in

her hair. She did not look toward the audience at all, nor bow, nor

smile, and for some reason the applause began to falter as though the

sensitive mind of the crowd was already aware that here something must

be wrong. She came very slowly, her arms hanging, her head bent, her

eyes looking up from under her brows, and she stood beside Prosper

Gael, whose forced smile had stiffened on his lips. He looked at her

in obvious fear, as a man might look at a dangerous madwoman. There

must have been madness in her eyes. She stood there for a strange,

terrible moment, moving her head slightly from side to side. Then she

said something in a very low tone. Because of the extraordinary

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.




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