"Like hell, she'll go," shouted a wildly familiar voice.
There was a gruff oath.
We stayed to hear no more. Garrick had already picked up the heavy suitcase and was running down the steps two at a time, with myself hard after him.
Without waiting to ring the bell at 99, he dashed the suitcase through the plate glass of the front door, reached in and turned the lock. We hurried into the back room.
Violet was lying across a divan and bending over her was Warrington.
"She—she's unconscious," he gasped, weak with the exertion of his forcible entrance into the place and carrying from the floor to the divan the lovely burden which he had found in the room. "They—they fled—two of them—the maid, Lucille—and a man I could not see."
Down the street we heard a car dashing away to the sound of its changing gears.
"She's—not—dying—is she, Garrick?" he panted bending closer over her.
Garrick bent over, too, felt the fluttering pulse, looked into her dilated eyes.
I saw him drop quickly on his knees beside the unconscious girl. He tore open the heavy suitcase and a moment later he had taken from it a sort of cap, at the end of a rubber tube, and had fastened it carefully over her beautiful, but now pale, face.