Long past midnight the telephone in the Desmond apartment rang sharply, insistently. Lydia, who had just fallen asleep, awoke with a start and sat bolt upright in her bed. A clammy perspiration broke out all over her body. There in the darkness she shivered with a dread so desolating that every vestige of strength forsook her and she could only stare helplessly into the black pall that surrounded her.
Never before in all her life had she been aroused from sleep by the jangling of a telephone-bell. The sound struck terror to her heart. She knew that something terrible had happened. She knew there had been a catastrophe.
She sat there chattering until she heard her mother's door open and then the click of the receiver as it was lifted from the hook. Then she put her fingers to her ears and closed her eyes. The very worst had happened; she was sure of it. The blow had fallen. The one thought that seared her brain was that she had failed him, failed him miserably in the crisis. Oh, if she could only reclaim that lost hour of indecision and cowardice!
The light in the hallway suddenly smote her in the face, and she realised for the first time that her eyes were tightly closed, as if to shut out some abhorrent sight.
“Lydia!” Her mother was standing in the open door. “Oh, you are awake?” Mrs Desmond stared in amazement at the girl's figure.
“What is it, mother? Tell me what has happened? Is he————”
“He wants to speak to you. He is on the wire. His voice sounds queer——”
The girl sprang out of bed and hurried to the telephone.
“Don't go away, mother—stay here,” she cried as she sped past the white-clad figure in the doorway. Mrs Desmond flattened herself against the wall and remained there as motionless as a statue, her sombre gaze fixed on her daughter's face.
“Yes, Frederic, it is I, Lydia. What is it, dear?” Her voice was high and thin.