“Great Scott!” thought Nick, watching her. “To whom is she listening, and to what?”
The girl suddenly withdrew the plug.
Then, with a quick change of expression, with a look of heart-racking determination, she inserted it again, renewing the telephone connection.
Then she listened again, ghastly and horrified, for nearly a minute—and then her head dropped to one shoulder as if her neck was hinged, her arm fell like that of a corpse, dragging the plug out of the switchboard, while her tense form relaxed and fell from the chair, dropping with a thud upon the floor beside it.
Nick Carter had seen what was coming, and he already was on his way to the room, darting out of the manager’s office and through the adjoining corridor. He heard the screams of the frightened girls, when he en[{4}]tered, and, with quick discrimination, he turned to the least-alarmed one and said:
“She has only fainted. Bring a glass of water. Be quick about it.”
“Yes, sir.”
The girl addressed ran to a near closet and obeyed him.
Nick raised the prostrate girl a little, supporting her against his knee, and, with a wet handkerchief, he bathed her brow and cheeks, paying no attention to the fright and consternation of his observers.
The girl revived in a very few moments. A low moan, as pathetic as the facial expression which had preceded her collapse, broke from her gray lips. Her eyelids fluttered spasmodically, then were raised, and she gazed up vacantly at the detective’s kindly face.