Whispering Smith
clutching at the curtains, and fell in the darkness into Dicksie’s arms.
“Marion dear, don’t speak,” Dicksie whispered. “I heard everything. Oh, Marion!” she cried, suddenly conscious of the inertness of the burden in her arms. “Oh, what shall I do?”
Moved by fright to her utmost strength, Dicksie drew the unconscious woman back to her room and managed to lay her on the bed. Marion opened her eyes a few minutes later to see the lights burning, to hear the telephone bell ringing, and to find Dicksie on the edge of the bed beside her.
“Oh, Marion, thank Heaven, you are reviving! I have been frightened to death. Don’t mind the telephone; it is Mr. McCloud. I didn’t know what to do, so I telephoned him.”
“But you had better answer him,” said Marion faintly. The telephone bell was ringing wildly.
“Oh, no! he can wait. How are you, dear? I don’t wonder you were frightened to death. Marion, he means to kill us—every one!”
“No, Dicksie. He will kill me and kill himself; that is where it will end. Dicksie, do answer the telephone. What are you thinking of? Mr. McCloud will be at the door in five minutes. Do you want him in the street to-night?”
Dicksie fled to the telephone, and an excited conference over the wire closed in seeming reassur-
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