heard his name and now recognized him, Gregg could not tell; but something about his reply partially reassured her.
"Is he living?" Gregg demanded of her, definitely. "Or is he dead?"
"He's living," she replied, her mind now able to go back from the inspection of this stranger to the man she was trying to protect.
"But badly hurt?"
"Very badly," she said in such a whisper that Gregg's voice, too, went lower.
"I see," he said, quietly. "Who are you, please?"
"I?" Her mind had not come back to herself and Gregg again.
"I mean are you Sybil Russell?"
"Yes; I am."
"Who else is here?"
"Doctor Grantham and his assistant."
"A man?"
"Yes; another man."
"Nobody else?"
"No. They're in there together," she jerked her head vaguely behind her.
Gregg stepped closer to her; she started again to retreat but did not and stood holding the door open and half supporting herself by it. Behind her was a dining room with a heavy, handsome rug and a walnut table,—Sheraton, though Gregg recognized only that it was of good design; over it was a light shaded by a Tiffany bowl and showing a sideboard and chairs of the same pleasing design as the table; a Japanese bird cage with a canary hung before a window. No one was in the room; and no voice was audible from
