Sangster was terribly shocked.  He had quite forgotten the manner of his parting with Jimmy; he was only too willing and anxious to help him in any way possible.  When they reached the hotel he was shown into the Wyatt’s private sitting-room.  Jimmy was there at the telephone; he hung up the receiver as Sangster entered the room; he turned a white, worried face.

“Awful thing, isn’t it?” he said.  Even his voice sounded changed; it had lost its usual light-heartedness.

“It’s given me a most awful shock,” he said again.  “She was as well as anything last night; nobody had any idea——­” He broke off with a choke in his voice.  “Poor little Christine,” he said after a moment.  “We can’t do anything with her.  I wondered if you—­but I suppose you can’t,” he added hopelessly.

“Where is Miss Wyatt?” Sangster asked.  His kind face was very grave, but there was a steadiness in his eyes—­the eyes of a man who might be trusted.

“She’s in her room; we had to take her away forcibly from—­from her mother. . . .  You don’t know what a hell I’ve been through, old chap,” said Jimmy Challoner.

Sangster frowned.

“You!” he said with faint cynicism.  “What about that poor little girl, then; she——­” The door opened behind them, and Christine came in.  She stood for a moment looking across at the two men with blank eyes, as if she hardly recognised them.  Her face was white and haggard; there was a stunned look in her eyes, but Sangster could see that she had not shed a tear.  He went forward and took her hand.  He drew her into the room, shutting the door quietly.  Jimmy had walked over to the window; he stood staring into the street with misty eyes.  He had never had death brought home to him like this before.  It seemed to have made an upheaval in his world; to have thrown all his schemes and calculations out of gear; life was all at once a thing to be feared and dreaded.

He could hear Sangster talking to Christine behind him; he could not hear what he was saying; he was only too thankful that his friend had come.  The last hours which he had spent alone with Christine had been a nightmare to him.  He had been so unable to comfort her; he had been at his wits’ end to know what to do or say.  She was so utterly alone; she had no father—­no brothers to whom he could send.  He had wired to an uncle of whom she had told him, but it was impossible that anyone could arrive before the morning, he knew.

Sangster was just the sort needed for a tragedy such as this; was a brick—­he always knew what to say and do.

The room seemed very silent; the whole world seemed silent too, as if it had stopped aghast at this sudden tragedy which had been enacted in its midst.

Then Christine began to sob; the most pathetic, loneliest sound it was through the silent room.  Jimmy felt himself choking—­felt his own eyes blurred and misty.

He turned impulsively.  Christine was huddled in one of the big chairs, her pretty head down-flung on an arm.  Sangster stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder.