“Go inside.”  He was his steady self again.  “It is too cold out here.  I think some one has been hurt.  Go in.”

I ran in Mrs. Mundy’s room and to her wardrobe.  Getting a coat and an old cape, I threw the latter over my shoulders, and, coming back to the porch, went down its steps and across the street to where Mrs. Mundy and Selwyn were bending over a young woman who stirred as they came up.

“Put this on.”  I threw the coat to Mrs. Mundy.  “Who is it?”

“I don’t know.”  Mrs. Mundy knelt on the ground.  “Are you hurt?” she asked.  “There—­that’s better.”  With skilful movement she helped the girl, who seemed dazed, to steady herself.  As the latter sat up she put her hand to her face and brushed back her hair.

“Where am I?  Has he gone?” Her face was dropped in her hands.  “If he just would kill me and end it—­end it!”

“Who hurt you?” Selwyn’s voice was the quiet one that was ever his when something was to be done, and, leaning over her, he took the girl by the arm and lifted her to her feet.  “Can you tell what has happened?” He looked at Mrs. Mundy.  “It’s too cold out here for her to stand—­she’s pretty faint still.”

“Bring her over to me.”  Mrs. Mundy put her coat around the shivering girl, and, slipping her hand through one arm, motioned Selwyn to take hold of the other.  “Run ahead,” she nodded to me, “and fix up a dose of that aromatic spirits of ammonia what’s on the second shelf of the closet in my bedroom.  And pull the couch up to the fire.”

Dazedly, and dragging her feet as if they were powerless to move, the girl entered the warm and cheerful room, but at her entrance understanding seemed to give her strength.  With a shuddering, shivering, indrawing breath she drew back and leaned against the door-frame.

“I must go.  I—­I can’t come in there.  I’m better now.  I must go.”

“You can’t go.”  Selwyn’s voice was decisive.  “You’ll be all right presently, but you’ll have to—­to rest, first.”  Firmly she was led to the couch and pushed upon it.  Taking the medicine from my hands, he held it to her lips.  “Take this.”

Hesitating, partly defiant, partly afraid, the girl raised her eyes to his.  Then, with hand that shook badly, she took the glass and drank part of its contents, the rest was spilled in her lap.

“If it were prussic acid I’d be glad to drink it.”  The voice was bitter, and again the eyes, pale yet burning, were raised to his, and in them was what seemed frightened but guarded recognition.  Quickly she dropped them and glanced around the room, as though looking for escape, and again her hands made convulsive pressure, again she started to get up.

“I must go.  I tell you, I must.  I—­I can’t stay here.”

“Very well.”  Mrs. Mundy looked toward Selwyn and away from me.  “When you’re steady you can go.  Mr. Thorne will telephone for a cab and I will take you—­home.”