"Drink your wine, Queenie," repeated Sydney, in a slightly impatient voice.
The beautiful actress struggled up to a sitting posture and looked into her sister's face.
"Good Heaven, Sydney, what ails you?" she said. "You look positively ghastly. This interview has been too much for you. I entreat you to drink the wine yourself."
But Sydney shook her head, although she was trembling like a leaf and her face was ashen white. She could scarcely keep from spilling the wine, the glass wavered so unsteadily in her hand.
"I insist upon it," said Queenie. "You need a restorative as much as I do. Drink that yourself and give me another glass."
A frightened look came into Sydney's eyes. Was it possible that Queenie had been watching her from under the hands that covered her face?
"I—I assure you I do not need it in the least," she faltered; "you looked so ghastly yourself, lying there, that I was frightened, but my nervousness is quite over now. Pray drink it yourself. I am anxious to see you revive enough to continue your story."
Queenie took the wine-glass in her hand and raised it to her lips.
Sydney watched her with parted lips and burning eyes. Her heart gave a bound of joy as her unfortunate sister touched the fatal draught with her beautiful lips.
They were so absorbed that they had not heard a rapping at the door. Both were quite unconscious that the person seeking admittance had grown impatient and recklessly turned the handle.