She pulled down her veil in confusion.
"Don't look at me," she whispered. "I hope you didn't hear what I said to you."
"I heard every word, love of my life. I—Listen! What's that?" He sat bolt upright.
"Some one's coming!" she cried, springing to her feet and placing herself between him and the door. He saw a glistening revolver in her small, white hand.
"It's Elinor Crouch," he whispered. "Heavens, how I have come to hate those footsteps of hers."
Elinor Crouch, her face pale with anger and apprehension, dashed into the room an instant later. She was attired in a loose wrapper, secured at the waist by a handsome Oriental girdle. Her black hair hung in two long plaits down her back. It was apparent that she had made no effort to perfect a toilet before rushing up-stairs in response to the noise.
Her dark eyes scarcely took in the slight figure of Linda Blake. They were for the man on the floor, and for him alone.
"Thank Heaven, you are here!" she cried, in a voice thrilling with relief. "I was afraid you might have—"
"Stand back, Miss Crouch," interrupted Linda firmly. "Don't you dare to touch him."
"Who—who are you?" gasped Elinor, for the first time granting the girl a look of surprise, but not of fear. "Why, on my life, it's that Blake girl. Soho! This is your work, is it? May I inquire, Miss Blake, what you are doing in my house at this time of night?"