The third act takes place at twenty minutes to twelve on the same night.

The fire is out. The table on which PETER took his coffee in the first act is now being used by the DOCTOR for WILLIAM'S medicines, two bottles, two glasses, two teaspoons, a clinical thermometer, &c. WILLIAM, who has been questioned by the DOCTOR, is now asleep upstairs. PETER'S hat hangs on the peg in the shadow. Although the hour is late, no one has thought of going to bed. FREDERIK is waiting at the hotel for the lawyer whom HICKS was to send to arrange for the sale of PETER GRIMM'S nurseries, but he has not arrived. The DOCTOR, full of his theories, is seated before the fire, writing the account of PETER GRIMM'S return, for the American Branch of the "London Society for Psychical Research." It is now a fine, clear night. The clouds are almost silvery and a hint of the moon is showing.

DR. MACPHERSON. [Reading what he has written.] "To be forwarded to the 'London Society for Psychical Research': Dr. Hyslop: Dear Sir: This evening at the residence of Peter—" [Pauses and inserts "the late" and continues to read after inserting the words.] "—the late Peter Grimm— the well-known horticulturist of Grimm Manor, New York, certain phenomena were observed which would clearly indicate the return of Peter Grimm, ten days after his decease. While he was invisible to all, three people were present besides myself—one of these, a child of eight, who received the message. No spelling out by signals nor automatic writing was employed, but word of mouth." [A rap sounds.] Who will that be at this hour?… [Looks at the clock.] Nearly midnight. [Opening the door.] Yes?

A VOICE. [Outside.] Telegram for Frederik Grimm.

DR. MACPHERSON. Not in. I'll sign. [He signs and, receiving the telegram, sets it against a candle-stick on the desk and resumes his seat. Reads:] "I made a compact with Peter Grimm, while he was in the flesh, that whichever went first was to return and give the other some sign; and I propose to give positive proof—" [He hesitates—thinks—then repeats.] "positive proof that he kept this compact and that I assisted in the carrying out of his instructions."

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [Enters—evidently highly wrought up by the events of the evening.] Who was that? Who knocked?

DR. MACPHERSON. Telegram.

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. I thought perhaps Frederik had come back. Don't you consider William much better?

DR. MACPHERSON. Mm …

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. Dear, dear! The scene that took place to-night has completely upset me. [The DOCTOR takes up his pen and reads to himself.] Well, Doctor: [She pushes forward a chair and sits at the other side of the table—facing him.] the breaking off of the engagement is rather sudden, isn't it? We've been talking it over in the front parlour, Mr. Batholommey and I. James has finished his work and has just joined us. I suggest sending out a card—a neat card—saying that, owing to the bereavement in the family, the wedding has been indefinitely postponed. Of course, it isn't exactly true.

DR. MACPHERSON. Won't take place at all. [Goes on reading.

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. Evidently not; but if the whole matter looks very strange to me—how is it going to look to other people; especially when we haven't any—any rational explanation—as yet? We must get out of it in some fashion.

DR. MACPHERSON. Whose business is it?

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. Nobody's, of course. But Catherine's position is certainly unusual; and the strangest part of it all is—she doesn't seem to feel her situation. She's sitting alone in the library, seemingly placid and happy. What I really wish to consult you about is this: shouldn't the card we're going to send out have a narrow black border? [The DOCTOR is now writing.] Doctor, you don't appear to be interested. You might at least answer my question.

DR. MACPHERSON. What chance have I had to answer? You've done all the talking.

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [Rising—annoyed.] Oh, of course, all these little matters sound trivial to you; but men like you couldn't look after the workings of the next world if other people didn't attend to this. Some one has to do it.

DR. MACPHERSON. I fully appreciate the fact, Mistress Batholommey, that other people are making it possible for me to be myself. I'll admit that; and now if I might have a few moments in peace to attend to something really important—

The REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY has entered with his hat in his hand.

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Doctor, I've been thinking things over. I ran in for a moment to suggest that we suspend judgment until the information William has volunteered can be verified. I can scarcely believe that—

DR. MACPHERSON. Ump! [Rises and goes to the telephone on the desk.]
Four-red.

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. I regret that Frederik left the house without offering some explanation.

DR. MACPHERSON. [At the 'phone.] Marget, I'm at Peter's. I mean—I'm at the Grimms'. Send me my bag. I'll stay the night with William. Bye. [Seats himself at the table.

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Tell Frederik that, if he cares to consult me, I shall be at home in my study. Good-night, Doctor. Good-night, Rose.

DR. MACPHERSON. Hold on, Mr. Batholommey! [The REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY turns.] I'm writing an account of all that's happened here to-night—

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. [Dubiously.] Indeed!

DR. MACPHERSON. I shall verify every word of the evidence by William's mother for whom I am searching. [The REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY smiles faintly behind his hand.] Then I shall send in my report, and not until then. What I wish to ask is this: would you have any objection to the name of Mrs. Batholommey being used as a witness?

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. [Looks perplexed.] Well,—er—a—

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. Oh, no, you don't! You may flout our beliefs; but wouldn't you like to bolster up your report with "the wife of a clergyman who was present!" It sounds so respectable and sane, doesn't it? No, sir! You cannot prop up your wild-eyed—

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Rose, my dear!

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [Sweeping on.]—theories against the good black of a minister's coat. I think myself that you have probably stumbled on the truth about William's mother.

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Can it be true? Oh, dreadful! Dreadful!

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. But that child knew it all along. He's eight years old and he was with her until five—and five's the age of memory. Every incident of his mother's life has lingered in his little mind. Supposing you do find her and learn that it's all true: what do you prove? Simply that William remembered, and that's all there is to it.

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Let us hope that there's not a word of truth in it. Don't you think, Doctor—mind, I'm not opposing your ideas as a clergyman,—I'm just echoing what everybody else thinks—don't you believe these spiritualistic ideas, leading away from the Heaven we were taught to believe in, tend towards irresponsibility—er— eccentricity—and—often—er—insanity? Is it healthy—that's the idea—is it healthy?

DR. MACPHERSON. Well, Batholommey, religion has frequently led to the stake, and I never heard of the Spanish Inquisition being called healthy for anybody taking part in it. Still, religion flourishes. But your old-fashioned, unscientific, gilt, ginger-bread Heaven blew up ten years ago—went out. My Heaven's just coming in. It's new. Dr. Funk and a lot of the clergymen are in already. You'd better get used to it, Batholommey, and get in line and into the procession.

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. You'll have to convince me first, Doctor—and that no man can do. I made up my mind at twenty-one, and my Heaven is just where it was then.

DOCTOR MACPHERSON. So I see. It hasn't improved a particle.

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. [Tolerantly.] Well, well. Good-night. [MRS.
BATHOLOMMEY follows him in the hall.

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. Good-night, Henry; I'll be home to-morrow. You'll be glad to see me, dear, won't you?

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. My church mouse! [He pats her cheek, kisses her good-night and goes.

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [Who has gone to the door of her room—giving DR. MACPHERSON a parting shot.] Write as much as you like, Doctor; words are but air. We didn't see Peter Grimm and you know and I know and everybody knows that seeing is believing.

DR. MACPHERSON. [Looking up.] Damn everybody! It's everybody's ignorance that has set the world back a thousand years. Where was I before you—Oh, yes. [Reads as MRS. BATHOLOMMEY leaves the room.] "I assisted in the carrying out of his instructions." [FREDERIK GRIMM enters.

FREDERIK. Anybody in this house come to their senses yet?

DR. MACPHERSON. I think so, my boy. I think several in this house have come to their senses. Catherine has, for one. I'm very glad to see you back, Frederik. I have a few questions to put to you.

FREDERIK. Why don't you have more light? It's half dark in this room. [He picks up the lamp from the DOCTOR'S table and holds it so that he can look searchingly in the direction of the desk to see if PETER'S apparition is still there. His eye is suddenly riveted on the telegram resting against the candlestick on the desk.] Is that telegram for me?

DR. MACPHERSON. Yes.

FREDERIK. Oh…. It may explain perhaps why I've been kept waiting at the hotel…. [Tries to go to the desk but cannot muster up courage.] I had an appointment to meet a man who wanted to buy the gardens. I may as well tell you, I'm thinking of selling out root and branch.

DR. MACPHERSON. [Amazed.] Selling out? Peter Grimm's gardens? So this is the end of Peter's great work?

FREDERIK. You'll think it strange, Doctor; but I—I simply can't make up my mind to go near that old desk of my uncle's…. I have a perfect terror of the thing! Would you mind handing me that telegram? [The DOCTOR looks at him with scarcely veiled contempt, and hands him the telegram. After a glance at the contents, FREDERIK gives vent to a long-drawn breath.] Billy Hicks—the man I was to sell to—is dead…. [Tosses the telegram across the table towards DR. MACPHERSON, who does not take it. It lies on the table.] I knew it this afternoon! I knew he would die … but I wouldn't let myself believe it. Someone told it to me … whispered it to me…. Doctor, as sure as you live—somebody else is doing my thinking for me in this house.

DR. MACPHERSON. [Studying FREDERIK.] What makes you say that?

FREDERIK. To-night—in this room, I thought I saw my uncle … [Pointing towards the desk.] there.

DR. MACPHERSON. Eh?…

FREDERIK. And just before I—I saw him—I—I had the … the strangest impulse to go to the foot of the stairs and call Kitty—give her the house—and run—run—get out of it.

DR. MACPHERSON. Oh, a good impulse, I see! Very unusual, I should say.

FREDERIK. I thought he gave me a terrible look—a terrible look.

DR. MACPHERSON. Your uncle?

FREDERIK. Yes. My God! I won't forget that look! And as I started out of the room—he blotted out…. I mean—I thought I saw him blot out; … then I left the photograph on the desk and—

DR. MACPHERSON. That's how William came by it. [Jots down a couple of notes.] Did you ever have this impulse before—to give up Catherine—to let her have the cottage?

FREDERIK. Not much, I hadn't. Certainly not. I told you someone else was thinking for me. I don't want to give her up. It's folly! I've always been fond of her. But if she has turned against me, I'm not going to sit here and cry about it. I shall be up and off. [Rising.] But I'll tell you one thing: from this time, I propose to think for myself. I've taken a room at the hotel and a few things for the night. I've done with this house. I'd like to sell it along with the gardens, and let a stranger raze it to the ground; but—[Thinks as he looks towards the desk.] when I walk out of here to-night—it's hers—she can have it. … I wouldn't sleep here…. I give her the home because …

DR. MACPHERSON. Because you don't believe anything; but you want to be on the safe side in case he—[Gesturing to desk.] was there.

FREDERIK. [Puzzled—awed—his voice almost dropping to a whisper.] How do you account for it, Doctor?

DR. MACPHERSON. It might have been an hallucination or perhaps you did see him, though it could have been inflammation of conscience, Frederik: when did you last see Annamarie?

FREDERIK. [Angrily.] Haven't I told you already that I refuse to answer any questions as to my—

DR. MACPHERSON. I think it only fair to tell you that it won't make a particle of difference whether you answer me or not. I have someone on the track now—working from an old address; I've called in the detectives and I'll find her, you may be sure of that. As long as I'm going to know it, I may as well hear your side of it, too. When did you last see Annamarie?

FREDERIK. [Sits—answers dully, mechanically, after a pause.] About three years ago.

DR. MACPHERSON. Never since?

FREDERIK. No.

DR. MACPHERSON. What occurred the last time you saw her?

FREDERIK. [Quietly, as before.] What always occurs when a young man realizes that he has his life before him, must be respected—looked up to, settle down, think of his future and forget a silly girl?

DR. MACPHERSON. A scene took place, eh? Was William present?

FREDERIK. Yes. She held him in her arms.

DR. MACPHERSON. And then?

FREDERIK. I left the house.

DR. MACPHERSON. Then it's all true. [FREDERIK is silent.] What are you going to do for William?

FREDERIK. Nothing. I'm a rich man now—and if I recognize him—he'll be at me till the day he dies. His mother's gone to the dogs and under her influence, the boy—

DR. MACPHERSON. Be silent, you damned young scoundrel. Oh! What an act of charity if the good Lord took William, and I say it with all my heart. Out of all you have—not a crumb for—

FREDERIK. I want you to know I've sweat for that money, and I'm going to keep it!

DR. MACPHERSON. You've sweat for—

FREDERIK. [Showing feeling.]—Yes! How do you think I got the money? I went to jail for it—jail, jail. Every day I've been in this house has been spent in prison. I've been doing time. Do you think it didn't get on my nerves? I've gone to bed at nine o'clock and thought of what I was missing in New York. I've got up at cock-crow to be in time for grace at the breakfast table. I took charge of a class in Sabbath-school, and I handed out the infernal cornucopias at the church Christmas tree, while he played Santa Claus. What more can a fellow do to earn his money? Don't you call that sweating? No, sir; I've danced like a damned hand-organ monkey for the pennies he left me, and I had to grin and touch my hat and make believe I liked it. Now I'm going to spend every cent for my own personal pleasure.

DR. MACPHERSON. Will rich men never learn wisdom!

FREDERIK. [Rising.] No, they won't! But in every fourth generation there comes along a wise fellow—a spender who knows how to distribute the money others have hoarded: I'm the spender.

DR. MACPHERSON. Shame upon you and your like! Your breed should be exterminated.

FREDERIK. [Taking a little packet of letters from the desk.] Oh, no, we're quite as necessary as you are. And now—I shall answer no more questions. I'm done. Good-night, Doctor.

DR. MACPHERSON. Good-night and good-bye. [With a look of disgust, he has gone to the table, held a medicine bottle to the light to look at the label and poured a spoonful into a wine-glass filled with water. As FREDERIK leaves the house, the DOCTOR taps on a door and calls.] Catherine! [CATHERINE enters, and shows by the glance she directs at the front door that she knows FREDERIK has been in the room and has just left the house.] Burn up your wedding dress. We've made no mistake. I can tell you that! [Goes up the stairs to WILLIAM'S room, taking the lamp with him. JAMES has entered, and, taking CATHERINE'S hand, holds it for a moment.

JAMES. Good-night, Catherine. [She turns and lays her hand on his shoulder.

CATHERINE. I wonder, James, if he can see us now.

JAMES. That's the big mystery!… Who can tell? But any man who works with flowers and things that grow—knows there is no such thing as death— there's nothing but life—life and always life. I'll be back in the morning…. Won't you … see me to the door?

CATHERINE. Yes … yes…. [They go up together, CATHERINE carrying a candle into the dark vestibule. The moment they disappear, a lamp standing on the piano goes out as though the draught from the door or an unseen hand had extinguished it. It is now quite dark outside, and the moon is hidden for a moment. At the same time, a light, seemingly coming from nowhere, reveals PETER GRIMM standing in the room at the door—as though he had been there when the young people passed out. He is smiling and happy. The moon is not seen, but the light of it (as though it had come out from behind a cloud) now reveals the old windmill. From outside the door the voices of JAMES and CATHERINE are heard as they both say:] Good-night.

JAMES. Catherine, … I won't go without it….

PETER. [Knowing that JAMES, is demanding a kiss.] Aha! [Rubs his hands in satisfaction—then listens—and after a second pause exclaims, with an upraised finger, as though he were hearing the kiss.] Ah! Now I can go…. [He walks to the peg on which his hat hangs, and takes it down. His work is done. CATHERINE re-enters, darting into the hall in girlish confusion.

JAMES' HAPPY VOICE. [Outside.] Good-night!

CATHERINE. [Calling to him through the crack in the door.] Good-night! [She closes the door, turns the key and draws the heavy bolt—then leans against the door, candle-stick in hand—the wind has blown out the candle.] Oh, I'm so happy! I'm so happy!

PETER. Then good-night to you, my darling: love cannot say good-bye. [She goes to PETER'S chair, and, sitting, thinks it all over—her hands clasped in her lap—her face radiant with happiness.] Here in your childhood's home I leave you. Here in the years to come, the way lies clear before you. [His arm upraised.] "Lust in Rust"—Pleasure and Peace go with you. [CATHERINE looks towards the door—remembering JAMES' kiss—half smiling.] [Humorously.] Y—es; I saw you. I heard … I know…. Here on some sunny, blossoming day when, as a wife, you look out upon my gardens—every flower and tree and shrub shall bloom enchanted to your eyes…. All that happens—happens again. And if, at first, a little knock of poverty taps at the door, and James finds the road hard and steep—what is money?—a thing,—a good thing to have,—but still a thing … and happiness will come without it. And when, as a mother, you shall see my plantings with new eyes, my Catherine,—when you explain each leaf and bud to your little people—you will remember the time when we walked together through the leafy lanes and I taught you—even as you teach them—you little thing!… So, I shall linger in your heart. And some day, should your children wander far away and my gardens blossom for a stranger who may take my name from off the gates,—what is my name? Already it grows faint to my ears. [Lightly.] Yes, yes, yes, let others take my work…. Why should we care? All that happens, happens again. [She rests her elbow on the chair, half hides her face in her hand.] And never forget this: I shall be waiting for you—I shall know all your life. I shall adore your children and be their grandfather just as though I were here; I shall find it hard not to laugh at them when they are bad, and I shall worship them when they are good—and I don't want them too good…. Frederik was good…. I shall be everywhere about you … in the stockings at Christmas, in a big, busy, teeming world of shadows just outside your threshold, or whispering in the still noises of the night…. And oh! as the years pass, [Standing over her chair.] you cannot imagine what pride I shall take in your comfortable middle life—the very best age, I think—when you two shall look out on your possessions arm in arm—and take your well-earned comfort and ease. How I shall love to see you look fondly at each other as you say: "Be happy, Jim—you've worked hard for this;" or James says: "Take your comfort, little mother, let them all wait upon you—you waited upon them. Lean back in your carriage—you've earned it!" And towards the end—[Sitting on a chair by her side and looking into her face.] after all the luxuries and vanities and possessions cease to be so important—people return to very simple things, dear. The evening of life comes bearing its own lamp. Then, perhaps, as a little old grandmother, a little old child whose bed-time is drawing near, I shall see you happy to sit out in the sunlight of another day; asking nothing more of life than the few hours to be spent with those you love,… telling your grandchildren, at your knees, how much brighter the flowers blossomed when you were young. Ha! Ha! Ha! All that happens, happens again…. And when, one glad day, glorified, radiant, young once more, the mother and I shall take you in our arms,—oh! what a reunion! [Inspired.] The flight of love—to love…. And now … [He bends over her and caresses her hand.] good-night. [CATHERINE rises and, going to the desk, buries her face in the bunch of flowers placed there in memory of PETER.

CATHERINE. Dear Uncle Peter….

MARTA enters—pausing to hear if all is quiet in WILLIAM'S room.
CATHERINE, lifting her face, sees MARTA and rapturously hugs her, to
MARTA'S amazement—then goes up the stairs.

PETER. [Whose eyes never leave CATHERINE.] "Lust in Rust!" Pleasure and Peace! Amen! [CATHERINE passes into her room, the music dying away as her door closes. MARTA, still wondering, goes to the clock and winds it.] Poor Marta! Every time she thinks of me, she winds my clock. We're not quite forgotten.

DR. MACPHERSON. [Re-appears, carrying WILLIAM, now wrapped up in an old-fashioned Dutch patchwork quilt. The DOCTOR has a lamp in his free hand.] So you want to go downstairs, eh? Very good! How do you feel, laddie?

WILLIAM. New all over.

DR. MACPHERSON. [Placing the lamp on the little table right, and laying WILLIAM on the couch.] Now I'll get you the glass of cold water. [Goes into the dining-room, leaving the door open.

PETER. [Calling after the DOCTOR.] Good-night, Andrew. I'm afraid the world will have to wait a little longer for the big guesser. Drop in often. I shall be glad to see you here.

WILLIAM. [Quickly rising on the couch, looks towards the peg on which PETER GRIMM'S hat hung. Calling.] Mr. Grimm! Where are you? I knew that you were down here. [Seeing PETER.] Oh, [Raising himself to his knees on the sofa.] I see you now!

PETER. Yes? [There is an impressive pause and silence as they face each other.

WILLIAM. Oh, you've got your hat;… it's off the peg…. You're going.
Need you go right away—Mr. Grimm? Can't you wait a little while?

PETER. I'll wait for you, William.

WILLIAM. May I go with you? Thank you. I couldn't find the way without you.

PETER. Yes, you could. It's the surest way in this world. But I'll wait,— don't worry.

WILLIAM. I sha'n't. [Coaxingly.] Don't be in a hurry … I want—[Lies down happily.] to take a nap first…. I'm sleepy. [He pulls the covering up and sleeps.

PETER. I wish you the pleasantest dream a little boy can have in this world.

Instantly, as though the room were peopled with faint images of WILLIAM'S dream, the phantom circus music is heard, with its elfin horns; and, through the music, voices call "Hai! Hai!" The sound of the cracking of a whip is heard, and the blare of a clown's ten-cent tin horn. The phantom voice of the CLOWN (very faint) calls:

CLOWN'S VOICE. Billy Miller's big show and monster circus is in town this afternoon! Don't forget the date! Only one ring—no confusion. Circus day comes but once a year, little sir. Come early and see the wild animals and hear the lion roar-r-r! Mind, I shall expect you! Wonderful troupe of trained mice in the side-show.

During the above, the deeper voice of a "HAWKER"—muffled and far off— cries:

HAWKER'S VOICE. Peanuts, pop-corn, lemonade—ice cold lemo—lemo— lemonade! Circus day comes but once a year.

Breaking in through the music, and the voices of the CLOWN and HAWKER, the gruff voice of a "BARKER" is heard calling.

BARKER'S VOICE. Walk in and see the midgets and the giant! Only ten cents—one dime!

As these voices die away, the CLOWN, whose voice indicates that he is now perched on the head of the couch, sings:

CLOWN'S VOICE.
  "Uncle Rat has gone to town,
  Ha! H'm!
  Uncle Rat has gone to town
  To buy his niece"—

His voice ends abruptly—the music stops. Everything is over. There is silence. Then three clear knocks sound on the door.

PETER. Come in…. [The door opens. No one is there—but a faint path of phosphorous light is seen.] Oh, friends! Troops of you! [As though he recognizes the unseen guests.] I've been gone so long that you came for me, eh? I'm quite ready to go back. I'm just waiting for a happy little fellow who's going back with us…. We'll follow. Do you all go ahead— lead the way. [He looks at WILLIAM, holds out his arms, and WILLIAM jumps up and runs into them.] Well, William! You know better now. Come! [Picking up WILLIAM.] Happy, eh? [WILLIAM nods, his face beaming.

WILLIAM. Oh, yes!

PETER. Let's be off, then. [As they turn towards the door.

DR. MACPHERSON. [Re-entering, goes to the couch with the water, and suddenly, setting down the glass, exclaims in a hushed voice:] My God! He's dead! [He half raises up a boy that appears to be WILLIAM. The light from the lamp on the table falls on the dead face of the child. Then the DOCTOR gently lays the boy down again on the couch, and sits pondering over the mystery of death.

PETER. [To the DOCTOR.] Oh, no! There never was so fair a prospect for life!

WILLIAM. [In PETER'S arms.] I am happy!

Outside a hazy moonlight shimmers. A few stars twinkle in the far-away sky; and the low moon is seen back of the old windmill.

PETER. [To WILLIAM.] If the rest of them only knew what they're missing, eh?

WILLIAM. [Begins to sing, joyously.]
  "Uncle Rat has gone to town."

PETER dances up a few steps towards the door, singing with WILLIAM.

PETER and WILLIAM.
  "Ha! H'm!
  Uncle Rat has gone to town
  To buy his niece a wedding gown.
  Ha! H'm!"

PETER. [Gives one last fond look towards CATHERINE'S room. To
WILLIAM.] We're off! [Putting the boy over his shoulder, they sing
together, as they go up, the phantom circus music accompanying them.]
  "What shall the wedding breakfast be?
  Ha! H'm!"

PETER. [Alone.]
  "What shall the wedding breakfast be?
  Hard boiled eggs and a cup of tea."

WILLIAM and PETER. "Ha! H'm!"

PETER GRIMM has danced off with the child through the faint path of light. As he goes, the wind or an unseen hand closes the door after them. There is a moment's pause until their voices are no longer heard—then the curtain slowly descends. The air of the song is taken up by an unseen orchestra and continues as the audience passes out.

CURTAIN.