Rossiter was working in the Prosectorium at the Zoo when the daylight air-raid began.  It seemed to be coming across the middle of London; so, hastily doffing his overall, he left the Gardens and walked rapidly towards Portland Place.  He had hardly got past the fountain presented by Sir Jamsetjee Jeejeebhoy in wasted benevolence, than he heard the deafening report of the bomb which had wrecked his studio, reduced it to a tangle of iron girders and stanchions, strewn its floor with brick rubble and thick dust, and left his wife a human wreck, lying unconscious with a broken spine, surrounded by splinters of glass, broken jars, porcelain trays, and nasty-looking fragments of sponge and vertebrate anatomy.  With an almost paralyzing premonition of disaster he ran as quickly as possible towards Park Crescent.  The Marylebone Road was strewn with glass, and a policeman—­every one else had taken shelter—­was ringing and knocking at his front door to ascertain the damage and possible loss of life.  Michael let both of them in with his latch-key.  In the hall the butler was lying prone, stunned by a small statue which had been flung at him by the capricious violence of the explosion.  All the mirrors were shivered and most of the pictures were down.  At the entrance to the library cook was standing, all of a tremble.  The two little Adamses rushed up to him:  “Oh Sir Michael!  Mummie is dead and Gran’ma is awfully hurted.”

But Mummie—­Mrs. Adams—­was not dead; neither was the expensive parlour-maid.  Both had fainted or been stunned by the explosion on their way to help their mistress.  Both lay inanimate on the library floor.  The library glass door was shivered to dangerous jagged splinters, but the iron framework—­“Curse it”—­remained a tangled, maddening obstacle to his further progress.  He could see through the splinters of thick glass something that looked like Linda, lying on her back—­and—­something that looked like blood.  The policeman who followed him was strong and adroit.  Together they detached the glass splinters and wrenched open the framework, with space enough, at any rate, to pass through without the rending of clothes into the studio.

Linda Rossiter was regaining consciousness for just a few more minutes of sentient life.  She was aware there had been a dreadful accident to some one; perhaps to herself.  But she fully believed she had first of all saved the precious jars.  No doubt they had put her to bed, and as there was something warm (her blood, poor thing) round her body, they must have packed her with hot water bottles.  Some idea of Michael’s no doubt.  How kind he was!

She would soon get right, with him to look after her.  She opened her eyes to meet his, as he bent over her, and said with the ghost of an arch smile:  “I—­have been—­of some use—­to you, haven’t—­I? ... (then the voice faltered and trailed away) ...  I ... saved—­your—­specimens—­”

CHAPTER XIX