Watching her futile efforts, Shayne gave first aid by slapping her hard on the cheek. Her head jerked sideways, then turned slowly back. The pasty flesh of her cheek held the colorless outline of his fingers.
A spark of life came into the greenish eyes. The girl closed her mouth awkwardly, then mumbled, “’Re you — Mist’ Shayne?”
Shayne said, “Yeh.” He jerked his arm from her lax fingers and caught her by both shoulders and shook her violently when she would have fallen.
Her head bobbed back and forth lifelessly. When he stopped shaking her she cringed away from him, ducking her head to avoid another blow.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he told her harshly. “I’m Shayne. What do you want?”
She mumbled, “Got to — shee Mist’ Shayne. Got to — tell ’im — tell ’im—” Her chin sagged open, and her mumbling wavered into silence.
A door opened down the hall and a group of laughing people stepped out and came toward them. Shayne kicked his door open, thrust the girl inside his office, and slammed it shut. He was breathing heavily and sweat stood on his corrugated brow. Still holding the girl on her feet by a firm grip on her shoulder, he groped with his free hand for the half-filled glass of ice water, dashed it into her face.
The shock brought a momentary gleam of perception to her greenish eyes. She put a wondering hand to her slapped cheek where the marks were faintly tinged with pink.
“It’s—’bout — Burt Stallings,” she whispered. “He’s — I got something that — knock — props — out—” Gray lids closed involuntarily over eyes which had gone vacant and lifeless again. Her jaw worked convulsively and sagged open. She fell face forward on the carpet without putting out her hands to break the force of her fall.
Shayne swore and hurriedly kneeled beside her. He turned her over and pulled an eyelid back. She had gone out like a candle in a tropical hurricane.