“Parkins told them so, your ladyship,” the girl answered; “but they insisted that the matter was important.  They would give no name, but said that they were speaking from Mr. Wingrave’s rooms.”

Lady Ruth raised her eyebrows.

“It is very extraordinary,” she said coldly, “but I will come to the telephone.”

“It was an accident”

Lady Ruth took up the receiver.  Some instinct seemed to have prompted her to close the door of the study.

“Who is there?” she asked.  “Who is it that wants me?”

A thin, unfamiliar voice answered her.

“Is that Lady Ruth Barrington?”

“Yes!”

“Is it—­Mademoiselle Violet?”

The receiver nearly dropped from her hand.

“I don’t understand you,” she answered, “I am Lady Ruth Barrington!  Who are you?”

“You are Mademoiselle Violet,” was the answer, “and you know who I am!  Listen, I am in Mr. Wingrave’s rooms.”

She would have liked to have rung off and gone away, but it seemed a sheer impossibility for her to move!  And all the time her knees were shaking, and the fear of evil things was in her heart.

“What are you doing there?” she asked.

“He brought me in himself,” the thin voice answered.  “Can you hear me?  I don’t want to speak any louder for fear anyone else should be listening.”

“Yes, I can hear,” she answered.  “But how dared you ring me up?  Say what you desire to quickly!  I am going away.”

“Wait, please,” the voice answered.  “I know why you have been angry with me.  I know why you have kept away from me, why you have been so cruel!  It was because I failed.  Was it not, dear Mademoiselle Violet?”

She had not the breath or the courage to answer him.  In a moment or two he continued, and there was a note of suppressed exultation in his tone.

“Listen!  This time—­I have not failed!”

She nearly screamed.  The receiver in her hand burned like a live thing.  Her eyes were set in a fixed and awful stare as though she were trying to see for herself outside the walls of the little room where she stood into the larger chamber from which the voice—­that awful voice—­came!  Her own words were hysterical and uncertain, but she managed to falter them out at last.

“What do you mean?  Where is Mr. Wingrave?  Tell me at once!”

The voice, without being raised, seemed to take to itself a note of triumph.

“He is dying—­on the floor—­just here!  Listen hard!  Perhaps you can hear him groan!  Now will you believe that I am not a coward?”

Her shriek drowned his words.  She flung the receiver from her with a crash and rushed from the room into the hall.  She brushed past her maid with a wild gesture.

“Never mind my wraps.  Open the door, Parkins!  Is the carriage waiting?”

“Yes, Milady!  Shall—­”

But she was past him and down the steps.