“Oh, hurry!” she burst out wildly. “Don't stand there talking while the man is dying! Do something!”
Doctor Crang advanced to John Bruce's side, set down the little handbag he was carrying, and began to examine the wound.
“Yes, quite a gentleman of parts!” he repeated. His lips had thinned. “How did he get here?”
“I do not know,” she answered. “He came in through that window there and fell on the floor.”
“How peculiar!” observed Doctor Crang. “A gentleman down here in this locality, who is, yes, I will state it as a professional fact, in a very critical state, climbs in through Miss Claire Veniza's window, and——”
The telephone in the other room rang. Claire Veniza ran to it. Doctor Crang's fingers nestled on John Bruce's pulse; he made no other movement save to cock his head in a listening attitude in the girl's direction; he made no effort either to examine further or to dress the wound.
Claire Veniza's voice came distinctly:
“Yes... No, I do not think he will return to-night”—she was hesitating—“he—he met with an—an accident——-”
Doctor Crang had sprung from the other room and had snatched the receiver from the girl's hand. A wave of insensate fury swept his face now. He pushed her roughly from the instrument, and clapped his hand over the transmitter.
“That's one lie you've told me!” he said hoarsely. “I'll attend to the rest of this now.” He withdrew his hand from the transmitter. “Yes, hello!” His voice was cool, even suave. “What is it?... Monsieur Henri de Lavergne speaking—yes... Mister—who?... Mister John Bruce—yes.” He listened for a moment, his lips twitching, his eyes narrowed on Claire Veniza, who had retreated a few steps away. “No, not to-night,” he said, speaking again into the transmitter. “Yes, a slight accident.... Yes.., Good-by.”