Leslie realized that it would be cruel to question her more closely; the woman was so distressed that she might have hesitated even if she had not feared the effects of a further cross-examination upon one who was in the surgeon’s hands. “I will come along and see you when you’re a little better, Mrs. Gurden,” she said. Greta made no answer. As Leslie’s cab turned out of the street, it passed a big car swinging round to enter the unpretentious thoroughfare, and the girl had a glimpse of the princess. She wished now that on some pretext or other she had stayed, that she might see the meeting between these two. Anita Bellini mounted the stairs and, entering the apartment without knocking, summarily dismissed the charwoman, and Mrs. Hobbs, not unused to such cavalier treatment, departed meekly. “Has Maughan been here?” she demanded, as she strode into Greta’s room. Her eyes narrowed as she caught sight of the haggard face. “I see she has,” she said grimly. “What did she come about?” Greta raised herself on her elbow and pushed up her pillow to support her; she was trembling so that after a second she rolled back on the pillow with a groan. “She wanted to know how I was wounded,” she said at last. “What did you tell her?” asked the princess impatiently. “For Heaven’s sake pull yourself together, my good woman! How did she know you were wounded, anyway? Did you send an announcement to the newspapers?” “I don’t know how she knew, but she did. I told her that it was an accident, that I was cleaning my husband’s pistol and it went off. Anita, is it true?” “Is what true?” asked the princess roughly. “Is it true that Druze is dead?” “Yes.” “And that she was a woman?” “I thought you guessed,” said the Princess Anita. “Of course she was a woman.” “My stars, how awful!” Anita Bellini’s cold glance transfixed the invalid. “What is the matter with you?” she demanded harshly. “Druze was----” She stopped short. “How long are you going to be in bed?” Greta shook her head. “I don’t know; the doctor says another week at least.” “Did you tell her anything more? Really, Greta, you’re not to be trusted, though I never dreamed that nosy little devil would find out about your being shot. I suppose the doctor reported it.” She stared down at the woman speculatively. “I suppose I’d better give you some money,” she said, with no great enthusiasm. “You look awful, you know that? You’re not wearing well, Greta. All the mud in the world will not take those wrinkles from under your eyes. Why, you’re old.”