Napier put the note in his pocket.
"Say I'll be there in two minutes."
As he opened the door, he faced the Messenger standing there in the middle of the room with wide, scared eyes. "O Gavan!" She fled into his arms.
He held her there against him in the corner of the sofa till she could speak once more. Every now and then she broke out crying afresh as she told in incoherent fragments what that last horrible twenty-four hours had brought of knowledge, of anguish, of loathing.
"I've come to get you to help poor Greta and"—and she took for granted he'd do that—"to help poor me."
"Help you, my darling?"
She gave that quick nod.
"You must please do something for me and do it quickly." Her eyes went to the clock. "Forgive me for not being able to take the time to explain it all, but they—the Government of your country—is likely to"—she caught her breath, and the voice sank—"to do the most horrible thing, a thing you must prevent." In the silence she leaned forward the better to see his face. Plainly it made her anxious; she looked away with that fold between the brows. "I've just found out," she went on in a half-whisper—"it's no hearsay!—the authorities consider that Greta was caught 'red-handed,' as they call it. There's no time to go into that. It doesn't matter—"