When I knocked on the door of Miss Wallace's stateroom a shaky voice answered.
"Who is there?"
"It is I—Sedgwick."
The door opened. Evelyn, very pale, was standing before me with a little revolver in her hand. She wore a kind of kimono of some gray stuff, loose about the beautifully modeled throat, in which just now a pulse was beating fast. Sandals were on her feet, and from beneath the gown her toes peeped.
"What is it? Tell me," she breathed in a whisper, her finger on her lips.
I judged that her aunt had slept through the noise of the firing.
"They attacked us on the bridge again. We had the best of it."
"Is anybody—hurt?" she asked tremulously.
"Five of them have been killed or badly wounded. We lost Billie Blue, poor fellow."
"Dead?" her white lips framed.