“Tommy!”
“Glory!” The voice was like a murmur through the trees and it was Tommy’s; Tommy Whitely. He was there, bending over her!
Struggling back as from a hideous dream she remembered. There was Trixy too, holding her head and that was Ben. But Marty!
“Oh, get him! Get Marty!” she begged, springing upright from the friendly arms.
“Where is he?” Ben Hardy knew she could not have been there alone.
“In the cellar! Oh, that awful cellar. But the door—the front door is open!”
Her voice sounded miles away, and her eyes, they burned like fire. She brushed a hand. “What’s that!” she gasped. It was dark and wet.
“You cut your hands. But don’t worry. You’ll be all right. Poor little Gloria.” Trixy kissed away the mud smudge from the darling face now ghastly white from that horrible fainting spell. “We had to drag you out the window.”
“Oh, it was awful,” she breathed. “But I’m all right now. I must get Marty.”
“Are you sure you can walk?”