She was possessed by such a fury of rage as she had never believed even she could experience. Her exhibition to De Witt Turner had been but a pale umbra of what she felt at this moment when her sacred virginity was threatened. The man was panting. He took his hand from her face and she felt his lips approaching her own. She butted him in the chest with her head, gave a violent wrench that half freed her, swung round her pistol and fired. The man dropped without a groan. For a moment she could not stir, her legs were sinking under her. Then she staggered to the table, felt for matches, and lit the lamp. She stood gasping and panting, not daring to turn her head. Courage ebbed back. Something must be done. Police. Ambulance. Topper. She started to leave the room. The man groaned, very faintly. Perhaps she’d better put a pillow under his head. She tiptoed back to her fallen assailant, intending to approach him from behind. The word “malingering” occurred to her. And no doubt he had a pistol of his own. And then she stopped and screamed twice. The man lying in his blood was Eustace Bylant. Some time later she was wondering if she had fainted. She was sitting on a chair, shaking from head to foot, her teeth chattering. Hours seemed to pass. Slowly her blood resumed its even flow, her limbs obeyed her will, and suddenly she laughed. “So! Caveman stuff! Eustace! And he would have committed hara-kiri before he would have introduced such a scene into one of his novels. And a rotten psychologist after all.” She felt not the slightest remorse, nor stab of pity. She would have shot him as deliberately if she had guessed who he was. But something must be done and at once. She slipped a pillow under his head and went out to the room under the stair where the telephone was concealed. She took down the receiver, but stood in doubt. He must have a doctor—but whom? Her grandmother’s old physician had retired. She literally did not know the name of a doctor in New Jersey. Eustace had one in New York, for he suffered at times from dyspepsia. But here—what on earth should she do? She must consult Topper. She was starting for the wing, when she turned suddenly and ran back to the cupboard. Elsie! Of course! It was five minutes before she could rouse Central, who had probably eaten too many chocolates and fallen asleep. Three more before anyone in the house on States Avenue could be awakened. But finally a man’s voice demanded drowsily: “Well, what is it, this time of night?” Gita nearly dropped the receiver. “Dr. Pelham? It can’t be you! Is it you?” The voice sprang to life. “Is that you, Gi—Mrs. Bylant?” “Yes. Come quickly. Don’t ask any questions. Bring Elsie. Bring—other things.” The voice became cool and alert. “We’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.” Gita replaced the receiver on its hook. “What luck! What luck!” But she was trembling once more.