The telephone in the other room rang. Claire Veniza ran to it. Doctor Crang's fingers nestled on John Bruce's pulse; he made no other movement save to cock his head in a listening attitude in the girl's direction; he made no effort either to examine further or to dress the wound. Claire Veniza's voice came distinctly: “Yes... No, I do not think he will return to-night”--she was hesitating--“he--he met with an--an accident-----” Doctor Crang had sprung from the other room and had snatched the receiver from the girl's hand. A wave of insensate fury swept his face now. He pushed her roughly from the instrument, and clapped his hand over the transmitter. “That's one lie you've told me!” he said hoarsely. “I'll attend to the rest of this now.” He withdrew his hand from the transmitter. “Yes, hello!” His voice was cool, even suave. “What is it?... Monsieur Henri de Lavergne speaking--yes... Mister--who?... Mister John Bruce--yes.” He listened for a moment, his lips twitching, his eyes narrowed on Claire Veniza, who had retreated a few steps away. “No, not to-night,” he said, speaking again into the transmitter. “Yes, a slight accident.... Yes.., Good-by.” Doctor Sydney Angus Crang hung up the receiver, and with a placid smile at variance with the glitter that suddenly brought life into his dulled eyes, advanced toward the girl. She stepped backward quickly into the other room, retreating as far as the motionless form that lay upon the floor. Doctor Crang followed her. And then Claire Veniza, her face grown stony, her small hands clenched, found her voice again. “Aren't you going to help him? Aren't you going to do something? Is he to die there before your eyes?” she cried. Doctor Crang shrugged his shoulders. “What can I do?” he inquired with velvet softness. “I am helpless. How can I bring the dead back to life?” “Dead!” All color had fled her face; she bent and looked searchingly at John Bruce. “Oh, no; not yet,” said Doctor Crang easily. “But very nearly so.” “And you will do nothing!” She was facing him again. “Then--then I will try and get some one else.” She stepped forward abruptly. Doctor Crang barred her way. “I don't think you will, Claire, my dear!” His voice was monotonous; the placid smile was vanishing. “You see, having spoken to that dear little doll of a man, Monsieur Henri de Lavergne, I'm very much interested in hearing your side of the story.” “Story!” the girl echoed wildly. “Story--while that man's life is lost! Are you mad--or a murderer--or----” “Another lover,” said Doctor Crang, and threw back his head and laughed. She shrank away; her hands tight against her bosom. She glanced around her. If she could only reach the telephone and lock the connecting door! No! She did not dare leave him _alone_ with the wounded man. “What--what are you going to do?” she whispered. “Nothing--till I hear the story,” he answered. “If--if he dies”--her voice rang steadily again--“I'll have you charged with murder.”