"Show me the way, then—show me the way. Where is she?" Van shook the man's shoulder roughly. "Don't stand here trembling. Take me to the place."
The man was in a wretched plight, from fear and the physical suffering induced by what he had seen. He reeled drunkenly as he started down the street, then off between some rows of canvas structures, heading for a district hung with red.
At the edge of this place, at an isolated cabin, comprising two small, rough rooms, the man seemed threatened with collapse.
"May be too late," he whispered hoarsely, as he listened and heard no sounds from the house. "I'm goin' to stay outside—and wait."
The door was ajar. Without waiting for anything further, Van pushed it open and entered.
"There he is—I knew it!" cried Queenie from the room at the rear. It was a cry that smote Van like a stab.
Then he came to the room where she was lying.
"I knew you'd come—I knew it, Van!" said the girl in a sudden outburst of sobbing, and she tried to rise upon her pillow. Agony, which she had fought down wildly, seized her in a spasm. She doubled on the bed.
Van glanced about quickly. The doctor—a young, inexperienced man—was there, sweating, a look of abject helplessness upon his face. The room was a poor tawdry place, with gaudy decorations and a litter of Queenie's finery. In her effort to conquer the pains that possessed her body, the girl had distorted her face almost past recognition.
Van came to the bedside directly, placed his hand on her shoulder, and gave her one of his characteristic little shakings.