"I don't know, sir! There's a rumor that she's kil——."
Yorke pushed by him and made his way to the dressing rooms. There was a crowd of chorus girls and supers surging to and fro in the corridor and clustered together in little knots; all talking in hurried whispers.
They made way for Yorke and he knocked at the door of Finetta's dressing room. The manager opened it.
"Is it the doctor—oh, it's you, my lord!" he said in a whisper. "It's an awful thing! In the middle of the season, too!"
"Is she——," began Yorke in a low voice, hoarse with agitation. But low as it was it was heard by someone within the room, for Finetta's voice, weak and hollow with pain, said:
"Is that you, Yorke? Let him come in!"
CHAPTER XXXIX.
FINETTA'S CONFESSION.
Yorke went in. Finetta was lying on the sofa, lying with that awful inert look which tells its own story. Her shapely arm hung down limply, helplessly; across her face, white as death, a thin line of blood trickled, coming again as fast as the trembling dresser wiped it away. One or two women stood near her, silent and apprehensive.