Pierre got to his feet, dropped back, and hid his face. Then he was

up, and struggling past excited people down the row, out into the

aisle, along it, hurrying blindly down unknown passages till somehow

he got himself into that confused labyrinth behind the scenes. Here a

pale, distracted scene-shifter informed him that Miss West had already

been taken home.

Pierre got the address, found his way out to the street, hailed a

taxicab, and threw himself into it. He sat forward, every muscle

tight; he felt that he could take the taxicab up and hurl it forward,

so terrible was his impatience.

An apartment house was a greater novelty to him even than a theater,

but, after a dazed moment of discovering that he did not have to ring

or knock, but just push open the great iron-scrolled door and step

into the brightly lighted, steam-heated marble hall, he decided that

the woman at the desk was a person in authority, and to her he

addressed himself, soft hat gripped in his hand, his face set to hide

excitement.

The girl was pale and red-eyed. They had brought Miss West in a few

minutes ago, she told him, and carried her up. She was still

unconscious; poor thing! "I don't think you could see her, sir. Mr.

Morena is up there, and Mr. Gael, and a doctor. A trained nurse has

been sent for. Everything in the world will be done. She's such an

elegant actress, ain't she? I've often seen her myself. And so kind

and pleasant always. Yes, sir. I'll ask, if you like, but I'm sure

they won't allow you up."

She put the receiver to her ear, pushed in the black plug, and Pierre

listened to her questions.

"Can Miss West see any one? Can an old friend"--for so Pierre had

named himself--"be allowed to see her? No. I thought not." This, with

a sympathetic glance at Pierre. "She is not conscious yet. Dangerously

ill."

"Could I speak to the doctor?" Pierre asked hoarsely.

"The gentleman wants to know if he can speak to the doctor. Certainly

not at present. If he will wait, the doctor will speak to him on the

way out."

Pierre sat on the bench and waited. He leaned forward, elbows on

knees, head crushed in both hands, and the woman stared at him

pitilessly--not that he was aware of her scrutiny. His eyes looked

through his surroundings to Joan. He saw her in every pose and in

every look in which he had ever seen her, and, with a very sick and

frightened heart, he saw her, at the last, pass by him in her fur

coat, throwing him that half-contemptuous look and smile. She didn't

know him. Was he changed so greatly? Or was the change in her so

enormous that it had disassociated her completely from her old life,

from him? He kept repeating to himself Holliwell's stern, admonishing

speech: "However changed for the worse she may be when you do find

her, Pierre, you must remember that it is your fault, your sin. You

must not judge her, must not dare to judge her. Judge yourself.

Condemn yourself. It is for her to forgive if she can bring herself to

do it."




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