"Jim—the—private—door—get—Princess—away—quick! Save—her—from—scandal!"
And Jim, falling back instantly into the old subserviency and obedience, sprang to the curtained door, that in opening outward took with it the pedestal and statuette of the little "Love," which were securely fastened to it, so that when the door was closed again the room looked utterly undisturbed. Pushing the door open he flew to Sybil, who had never moved, and, catching her about the waist, dragged her toward it. As she was passing Thrall he took his hand from his breast and caught at her fingers. She shuddered at the touch, so cold, so clammy, so—so wet!
"Beloved!" his eyes looked enormous in his pallid face. "Beloved!—I—sinned—against—you—but—it—was—from—love! Forgive—can—you?"
A sort of surprise came upon her face, and she said, simply, as if that answered completely his question: "I love you, dear heart!"
One flash of the old triumphant light came to his eyes; then, though Death's grim face looked at him, over her shoulder, the tormenting jealousy of the passionate lover flared up in him, and he gasped, painfully: "For—all—time—beloved?"
She bent and kissed his eyes, kissed his gasping clay-cold lips, and answered: "I love you for time and for eternity!"
And Roberts, whispering: "Quick! Someone will come!" lifted her in his arms and carried her to the passage and set her down. As the door was closing on her she thought she heard Stewart say: "The word—the ruby—" and then she was hurrying up to her dressing-room, passing through it and down to the stage entrance, where there was no doorman at that hour, and so out into the street.
At the corner she glanced down toward the theatre, and saw a hatless man tearing madly out of the front door. It was Barney. He said something as he ran. Two people stopped, turned, and stared at the building, and so formed the nucleus of the swiftly gathering, traffic-impeding crowd—that mushroom growth, so common to excitable Broadway.
Her knees trembled threateningly beneath her, faintness seemed stealing over her senses. She dimly saw a cab, working its way up the street. The man lifted his whip inquiringly; she raised her bare hand to summon him, and then, there in the open street, she gave a cry of horror, fortunately drowned by other sounds, for that was the hand Thrall had clutched, and his chill, blood-wet fingers had left three close lines of red, that, circling her fingers, led straight across the great opal. She gasped out her street and number, and, stumbling into the cab, she heard an excited passer-by remark: "That's Sybil Lawton! I'll bet a dollar she was on her way to the theatre!" And as the cab passed on he continued: "Well, she couldn't get through that crowd! I 'spose a policeman has told her what's happened down there. We had seats for to-night, too—I guess they'll redeem the tickets."
And ten minutes later the rumor was running like fire in dry grass: "That Sybil Lawton had been shopping and a policeman stopped her, and, without warning or preparation of any kind, had informed her of the shooting of her manager, and she collapsed, and was driven home in a cab."