Uneasily I crept back until the open doorway showed as a dim rectangle of shadow; crept back and peered fearfully into the darkness of the lobby. She was still standing in the corner—an upright smudge of deeper darkness in the obscurity. But even as I looked, the shadowy figure collapsed and slid noiselessly to the floor.
In an instant the pursuit was forgotten, and I darted into the lobby, shutting the outer door behind me, and dropped on my knees at her side. Where she had fallen a streak of light came in from the studio, and the sight that it revealed turned me sick with terror. The whole front of her smock, from the breast downwards, was saturated with blood; both her hands were crimson and gory, and her face was dead-white to the lips.
For an instant I was paralyzed with horror. I could see no movement of breathing, and the white face with its parted lips and half-closed eyes, was as the face of the dead. But when I dared to search for the wound, I was a little reassured; for, closely as I scrutinized it, the gory smock showed no sign of a cut excepting on the bloodstained right sleeve. And now I noticed a deep gash on the left hand, which was still bleeding freely, and was probably the source of the blood which had soaked the smock. There seemed to be no vital wound.
With a deep breath of relief, I hastily tore my handkerchief into strips and applied the improvised bandage tightly enough to control the bleeding. Then with the scissors from my pocket-case, which I now carried from habit, I laid open the blood-stained sleeve. The wound on the arm, just above the elbow, was quite shallow; a glancing wound, which tailed off upwards into a scratch. A turn of the remaining strip of bandage secured it for the time being, and this done I once more explored the front of the smock, pulling its folds tightly apart in search of the dreaded cut. But there was none; and now, the bleeding being controlled, it was safe to take measures of restoration. Tenderly—and not without effort—I lifted her and carried her into the studio, where was a shabby but roomy couch, on which poor D’Arblay had been accustomed to rest when he stayed for the night. On this I laid her, and fetching some water and a towel, dabbed her face and neck. Presently she opened her eyes and heaved a deep sigh, looking at me with a troubled, bewildered expression, and evidently only half-conscious. Suddenly her eye caught the great blood-stain on her smock, and her expression grew wild and terrified. For a few moments she gazed at me with eyes full of horror; then, as the memory of her dreadful experience rushed back on her, she uttered a little cry and burst into tears, moaning and sobbing almost hysterically.
I rested her head on my shoulder and tried to comfort her; and she, poor girl, weak and shaken by the awful shock, clung to me trembling, and wept passionately with her face buried in my breast. As for me, I was almost ready to weep, too, if only from sheer relief and revulsion from my late terrors.
“Marion, darling!” I murmured into her ear as I stroked her damp hair. “Poor dear little woman! It was horrible. But you mustn’t cry any more now. Try to forget it, dearest.”
She shook her head passionately. “I can never do that,” she sobbed. “It will haunt me as long as I live. Oh! and I am so frightened, even now. What a coward I am!”
“Indeed you are not!” I exclaimed. “You are just weak from loss of blood. Why did you let me leave you, Marion?”
“I didn’t think I was hurt, and I wasn’t particularly frightened then; and I hoped that if you followed him he might be caught. Did you see him?”
“No. There is a thick fog outside. I didn’t dare to leave the threshold. Were you able to see what he was like?”