“No. 18, Grosvenor Mansions,” she cried to the man.  “Drive fast.”

The man obeyed.  The servants, who had come to the door, stood there a little frightened group.  She ignored them and everything else completely.  The carriage had scarcely stopped when she sprang out and crossed the pavement in a few hasty steps.  The tall commissionaire looked in amazement at her.  She wore an opera cloak—­she was a bewildering vision of white satin and diamonds, and her eyes were terrible with the fear which was in her heart.

She clutched him by the arm.

“Come up with me to Mr. Wingrave’s rooms,” she exclaimed.  “Something terrible has happened.  I heard through the telephone.”

The man dashed up the stairs by her side.  Wingrave’s suite was on the first floor, and they did not wait for the lift.  The commissionaire put his finger on the bell of the outside door.  She leaned forward, listening breathlessly.  Inside all was silence except for the shrill clamor of the bell.

“Go on ringing,” she said breathlessly.  “Don’t leave off!”

The man looked at her curiously.  “Mr. Wingrave came in about an hour ago with a young man, madam,” he said.

“Yes, yes!” she cried.  “Listen!  There’s someone coming.”

They heard a hesitating step inside.  The door was cautiously opened.  It was Richardson, pale, disheveled, but triumphant, who peered out.

“Mademoiselle—­Mademoiselle Violet,” he cried.  “You have come to see for yourself.  This way!”

She raised her arm and struck him across the face so that, with a little moan, he staggered back against the wall.  Then she hastened forward into the room towards which he had pointed and the door of which stood open.  The commissionaire followed her.  The servants were beginning to appear.

The room was in darkness save for one electric light.  A groan, however, directed them.  She fell on her knees by Wingrave’s prostrate figure and raised his head slightly.  His servant, too, was hurrying forward.  She looked up.

“Get me some brandy,” she ordered.  “Send someone for a doctor.  Don’t let that young man escape.  The brandy, quick!”

She forced some between his lips.  There was already a spot of blood upon the gown which, a few minutes ago, had seemed so immaculate.  One of the ornaments fell from her hair.  It lay unnoticed by her side.  Suddenly Wingrave opened his eyes.  She saw at once that he was conscious and that he recognized her.

“Don’t move, please,” she begged.  “It will be better for you not to speak.  The doctor will be here directly.”

He nodded.

“I don’t think that I am much hurt,” he said slowly.  “Your young friend was a born bungler!”

She shuddered, but said nothing.

“How on earth,” he asked, “did you get here?”

She whispered in his ear.

“The brute—­telephoned.  Please don’t talk.”