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out into the street and into the alleys on both sides of the theater.

Then he came back stage again, joining the group of us who bent around the doctor, who was on his knees making an examination of the terribly still form of the fine actor who had been Augustin Arnold.

He had stripped away Arnold’s collar and tie, and was examining his neck closely. In a moment or two he rose and dusted the knees of his trousers, and anybody who had ever seen a doctor’s face when he turned away from a patient who has just breathed his last knew that all hope was gone for Augustin Arnold.

“Is he—is he . . . gone, doctor?” trembled the voice of Ike Humbert.

The doctor nodded.

“He is dead,” he said.

“Dead!” echoed the voices of most of us. “Dead!” echoed the voice of Humbert again.

“Yes,” nodded the doctor.

“But, doctor, how can that be?”’ persisted Humbert. “We were all here—you saw it yourself . . . there was nobody near him . . . how can it be that . . .?” his voice trailed away in a whine in his throat. He had lost control of himself, now that he had performed his duty to the audience. In the background I saw the straight figure of Betty Sargent stand, face white as chalk, black eyes almost lifeless, her body immovable as a statue.