The heavy glass door rang beneath the tap of impatient knuckles. Aroused abruptly from fitful unconsciousness into which she had drifted unawares, Anne sat up in bed and pressed both hands to her pounding heart.
“Yes, yes, what is it?” she cried in muffled terror. Was Alexis perhaps dying?
“Don’t be scared. It’s only me, Miss Wilson,” replied the nurse’s rather uncouth voice. “Mr. Petrovskey is conscious and I thought you’d better come.”
Anne sprang out of bed and donned slippers and dressing gown.
“Is he asking for me?” Her voice was unsteady, as she opened the door and went out into the studio.
“No ma’am, he seems quite rational for the moment. Asked for a drink of water. But I thought——”
“Yes, yes,” whispered Anne. She brushed by the woman impatiently.
“You were quite right to call me.” She stumbled across the shadowy studio and entered the dimly-lit bedroom beyond.
Hair ruffled above the unshaven young face, Alexis’ eyes stared into vacancy.
Gliding forward, Anne slipped on to her knees by the bed.