“Steady, Hawkins!” counselled Paul Veniza quietly. He turned to Claire Veniza. “Claire,” he asked, “is—is this true?”
She nodded—and suddenly, blindly, started toward the door.
“It is true,” she said.
“Claire!” Paul Veniza stepped after her. “Claire,
“Not to-night, father,” she said in a low voice. “Please let me go.”
He stood aside, allowing her to pass, his face grave and anxious—and then he turned again to Doctor Crang.
“She is naturally very upset over what has happened here,” said Doctor Crang easily—and suddenly reaching out grasped Hawkins' arm, and pulled the old man forward to the couch. “Here, you!” he jerked out. “You've got so much to say for yourself—take a look at this fellow!”
The old chauffeur bent over the couch.
“My God!” he cried out in a startled way. “It's the man we—I—drove to-night!”
“Quite so!” observed Doctor Crang. He smiled at Paul Veniza again. “Apart from the fact that the fellow came in through that window with a knife stab in his side that's pretty nearly done for him, Hawkins knows as much about it as either Claire or I do. He's in bad shape. Extremely serious. I will stay with him to-night. He cannot be moved.” He nodded suggestively toward the door. “Hawkins can tell you as much as I can. It's got to be quiet in here. As for Claire”—he seemed suddenly to be greatly disturbed and occupied with the condition of the wounded man on the couch—“that will have to wait until morning. This man's condition is critical. I can't put you out of your own room, but——-” Again he nodded toward the door.