He was already at the telephone as she spoke. He called the mill first, and got the night superintendent. Then he called a number Anna supposed was the police station, and at the same time he was ringing the garage-signal steadily for his car. By the time he had explained the situation to the police, his car was rolling under the porte-cochere beside the house. He was starting out, forgetful of the girl, when she caught him by the arm.
“You mustn't go!” she cried. “You'll be killed, too. It will all go, all of it. You can't be spared, Mr. Spencer. You can build another mill, but—”
He shook her off, gently.
“Of course I'm going,” he said. “We'll get it in time. Don't you worry. You sit down here and rest, and when it's all straightened out I'll come back. I suppose you can't go home, after this?”
“No,” she said, dully.
He ran out, hatless, and a moment later she heard the car rush out into the night.
Five minutes passed. Ten. Anna Klein stood, staring ahead of her. When nothing happened she moved around and sat down in the chair. She was frightfully tired. She leaned her head back and tried to think of something to calm her shaking nerves,—that this was Graham's home, that he sometimes sat in that very chair. But she found that Graham meant nothing to her. Nothing mattered, except that her warning had been in time.
So intent was she on the thing that she was listening for that smaller, near-by sounds escaped her. So she did not hear a door open up-stairs and the soft rustle of a woman's negligee as it swept from stair to stair. But as the foot-steps outside the door she stood up quickly and looked back over her shoulder.
Natalie stood framed in the doorway, staring at her.
“Well?” she said. And on receiving no answer from the frightened girl, “What are you doing here?”