But she was past him and down the steps.
“No. 18, Grosvenor Mansions,” she cried to the man. “Drive fast.”
The man obeyed. The servants, who had come to the door, stood there a little frightened group. She ignored them and everything else completely. The carriage had scarcely stopped when she sprang out and crossed the pavement in a few hasty steps. The tall commissionaire looked in amazement at her. She wore an opera cloak—she was a bewildering vision of white satin and diamonds, and her eyes were terrible with the fear which was in her heart.
She clutched him by the arm.
“Come up with me to Mr. Wingrave’s rooms,” she exclaimed. “Something terrible has happened. I heard through the telephone.”
The man dashed up the stairs by her side. Wingrave’s suite was on the first floor, and they did not wait for the lift. The commissionaire put his finger on the bell of the outside door. She leaned forward, listening breathlessly. Inside all was silence except for the shrill clamor of the bell.
“Go on ringing,” she said breathlessly. “Don’t leave off!”
The man looked at her curiously. “Mr. Wingrave came in about an hour ago with a young man, madam,” he said.
“Yes, yes!” she cried. “Listen! There’s someone coming.”
They heard a hesitating step inside. The door was cautiously opened. It was Richardson, pale, disheveled, but triumphant, who peered out.