“‘What kind of a bottle, sweetheart?’
“‘An ink-bottle’s best. You’ll find one downstairs on the dining-room mantelpiece. Hurry.’
“‘All right, I’ll get it.’
“She flew downstairs. Now was my chance. With my remaining strength I crawled to the door and locked it. When I recovered from a faint her struggles to force it had ceased, and at the same moment I heard the honk of the doctor’s auto. Going to the window, I bellowed like a bull. Then I was conscious of a strange thing: by the pressure on my throat, by my struggles, the malignant growth had broken. I was saved.”
Anastasia shuddered. “And that Gwendolin?” she queried.
“Was taken to an asylum, where she died,” I said sadly.
“Poor sing,” said Anastasia.
To tell the truth, the whole thing had happened to me the night before in a very vivid dream. Often, indeed, I get ideas in this way, so I promptly made a story of Nurse Gwendolin.
I was putting the finishing touches to it when a knock came to the door. It was Helstern, panting, perspiring.
“Heavens! but it’s hard climbing that stairway of yours with a game leg. Sorry to disturb you, Madden, but where does the mother of your little girl live? You don’t know how that youngster inspires me. I feel that if I could do a full-length of her it would get me into the Salon. See! here’s a sketch. Spring, it’s called. Of course, I mean to follow up with the other seasons, but I want a child for my Spring.”