"He is not dead," she said in a whisper; "he is wounded."
"As soon as we get to Rita's," he continued reassuringly, "I will telephone. I'll find out everything."
"Wounded," she repeated, nodding—without hearing him.
"If he is, we three can go—it will seem quite natural," he said hastily, eying nervously her dry, uncomprehending grief, fearing the coming outburst of realization.
"Almost there," he said, looking out of the window. "Hold on to yourself. Be game. There are always a few persons below."
She did not answer, but her lips curled slightly in contempt, and she put her hand spasmodically to her throat.
"You're right, the whole thing may be false—a wild rumor," he said quickly, talking to her as to a child. "A fake story—who knows? See, there are no details. Here we are. A little courage! Go right into the elevator."
He signaled the driver to wait, and followed her hastily into the elevator, standing between her bowed figure and the boy.
Mrs. Kildair was in the studio, pacing the floor; and at the first glance each saw that she knew the report, and that it was true. Mrs. Bloodgood crumpled on the floor, without consciousness.
"My smelling-salts are on my bureau," said Mrs. Kildair quickly. "Lift her on the sofa first, and then get them."