ceiving Exel; then, with a woman’s unerring intuition, divined a tragedy, and, in the instant of divination, sought for, and found, the hub of the tragic wheel.
One swift glance she cast at the fur-clad form, prostrate.
The chafing-dish fell from her hand, and the omelette rolled, a grotesque mass, upon the carpet. She swayed, dizzily, raising one hand to her brow, but had recovered herself even as Leroux sprang forward to support her.
“All right, Leroux!” cried Cumberly; “I will take her upstairs again. Wait for me, Exel.”
Exel nodded, lighted his cigar, and sat down in a chair, remote from the writing-table.
“Mira—my wife!” muttered Leroux, standing, looking after Dr. Cumberly and his daughter as they crossed the lobby. “She will report to—my wife.”…
In the outer doorway, Helen Cumberly looked back over her shoulder, and her glance met that of Leroux. Hers was a healing glance and a strengthening glance; it braced him up as nothing else could have done. He turned to Exel.
“For Heaven’s sake, Exel!” he said, evenly, “give me your advice—give me your help; I am going to ’phone for the police.”
Exel looked up with an odd expression.
“I am entirely at your service, Leroux,” he said.
