rooped to the painful spectacle of his own person. He was a
sight. There was blood all over his hands now, and on his clothes. The
paper he gripped was stained with it. It had got on the sofa. It was
on the floor. The door-knob, the door itself, the wall beside it, were
marked with it.

What if Grace should come in! What could he say? Could he say anything?
His mind darted about this way and that, like a rat in a trap. This was
awful! Where was that girl? Why, in Heaven's name, didn't she come hack?
It seemed to him that hours were passing. He observed that the
blood came faster when he moved, and he lay very still....
Hours--hours--hours!

There were sounds outside. Some one ran up the iron stairs. Then some
one else. People were speaking. The act--the play--was over.

He raised himself on his elbow. There was another step in the corridor,
a step he knew. He let himself slowly down.

The door swung open. Grace, tired, a far-away look in her eyes, was
coming slowly in. Then she fairly sprang in--and closed the door
sharply. She was across the room before he could collect his thoughts
and on her knees, her arms about him.

“Peter!”

“Look out, Grace. You'll get all covered with this stuff.”

Her eyes, wide, horror-struck, were fastened on his. “Peter--how awful!
What is it? What has happened?”

Her solicitude was unexpectedly soothing. His self-respect came creeping
back, a thought shamefaced. He even smiled faintly.

“I don't know, Grace, dear. Something happened--out in the street. A
fight, I think. I was walking by. Then I was stabbed.”

“Oh--oh!” she moaned, “some dreadful mistake!”

“Isn't it silly!”

“I'll have Neuerman get Doctor Brimmer.”

“No--please--”

But she rushed out. In a moment she was back, with an armful of parcels.
“Poor Minna--”

“I sent her to the drug store.”

“Yes. She fainted. She was bringing these things. They've carried her
into Miss Dunson's room.”

She opened the parcels.

He watched her. He had forgotten that she was so pretty, that she