They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. “I have the right of the man who loves you,” he declared. “I should kill you. My wife—killed me. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. [Illustration: Distinctive Pictures Photoplay. So she brought upon the stage the Reverend Henry Dolby, a preacher of means, worldly-wise and kindly, cheery and rotund, who, with his wife and daughter, had arrived at the Victoria that morning.
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