So poignant was the impression that she did look. A litter had been improvised, and on it Barouffski, an arm pendent, his head fallen back, his face a gray green, was being put.
On the door behind her sounded the muffled tap of fingers furtive and discreet. She turned. At the threshold was Parker.
“If you please, my lady. Will your ladyship receive——”
“No,” Leilah answered. She was about to add that she was at home to no one. But she caught herself. “Who is it?”
With that air which those acquire who attend to delicate matters, the woman answered: “Mr. Verplank.”
Leilah drew a long breath. She went to the mirror. The curtain had disarranged her hair. She readjusted it, and passed out and down into the slippery salon.
Verplank was leaning against the piano. His left arm was in a sling, and the left side of his face from the nose to the ear was bandaged.
Before either could speak there came from the hall a murmur of voices, the sound of lumbering feet, the noise of people labouring upward.
Verplank looked at Leilah, and from her to the door.
“What is that?”