“O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly! Thou mayst revenge.”
The dying Banquo’s words to his son in Act III were Concordia’s cue. With a final tap on Miss Banning’s shoulder to signal her intent, Concordia slipped quietly out of the dressing area backstage, exiting through a side door of the building.
The usher, absorbed in the play, paid Concordia little attention when she re-entered the auditorium through the vestibule doors. She stood against the back wall, watching both play and audience. How would events unfold in the next few minutes? It was out of her hands now.
“Which of you have done this?” Macbeth looked suitably startled as the ghost of Banquo, who had just appeared onstage, stared back at him silently. The other players pretended oblivion to the specter.
Th
