A voice spoke behind her.
“Caught in the act!” It was Serena. She stood in the doorway, gay and glittering, her face bright with a feverish excitement. “I’d never have thought it of you!” she said, laughing.
Geraldine stood like a statue, with the glass in her hand. It was horrible to her to be caught like this, to be judged guilty as these others were guilty; but it never occurred to her to invent a plausible lie. Serena might think what she liked; there would be no explanation. The girl turned to face her.
“I needed it,” she said.
“It’s a pretty stiff—” Serena began, and stopped short, staring at the girl. “My God!” she cried. “What’s happened? Your scarf—”
Geraldine looked down. One side of the scarf about her shoulders was sodden and stained with blood.
The glass dropped from her hand and crashed upon the floor, and a sickening blackness swam before her eyes. She stretched out her hands, and they touched nothing. Her knees gave way, and she staggered back. Then, with a supreme effort, she recovered herself. She leaned against the wall, sick and trembling, until the wild chaos in her brain passed by. She heard Serena speaking. Presently she could see Serena’s frightened face before her.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” she was saying.
“It’s Sambo,” said Geraldine, with an effort. “He’s hurt. Send some one to bring him in!”
“In here? Where is he?”