The sketch had appeared in a little privately-printed volume which Edward Wallace had picked up by chance on the Paris quays.

He had read it in an idle hour in a railway, had seen its capabilities, and had forthwith set to work to develop the sketch into a play.

But, in developing it, he had carefully preserved the character of the original conception.

It was a conception strictly of the Romantic time, and the execution of it presented very little of that variety of tone which modern audiences have learnt to expect.

The play told one rapid breathless story of love, jealousy, despair, and death, and it told it directly and uninterruptedly, without any lighter interludes.