"Excuse me," he said, with an authority which instantly impressed the woman by its ominous seriousness. "Something terrible has happened. I must speak to you." Then, turning to the coachman, without being overheard, he gave him Mrs. Kildair’s address, saying: "Drive there quickly. Five dollars to you if you get me there in ten minutes." Then he opened the door and joined the woman who, drawn back in the corner like an animal at bay, already trembling with what she did not know, awaited him. *CHAPTER XI* For an interval, while the coachman, spurred on by the prospect of reward, tore through the short streets, Beecher continued looking into Mrs. Bloodgood’s eyes—eyes that were aghast with mute, terrified interrogations which she did not dare to phrase. Suddenly she perceived the extra which he had bought. She extended her hand, looking at it fearfully. "Give it to me," she said. He hesitated, and in the moment of irresolution she seized it. A cry of pain, a low cry torn from the soul, made him stiffen in his seat, steeling himself against the expected. But no further sound came. When he turned, she was sitting transfixed, staring wide-eyed at the newspaper which seemed glued to her fingers. Alarmed at the rigidity of her emotion, he leaned over and disengaged the paper from her unresisting fingers. The action seemed abruptly to revive her. She gave another cry, and tore the newspaper from him with such energy that a great, ill-shaped fragment remained in her clutch. "No, no, not that—no, no!" she cried, frantically seeking to decipher the bare six lines that recorded the tragedy. All at once she flung the sheet from her, turning to read the truth in his face. "Ah, it is true!" she cried, and her hand, as though holding him guilty of the fact, violently pushed him from her. "Mrs. Bloodgood—" Beecher began hesitatingly, frightened at the paroxysm that shook her body. But the emotion was still of horror, without as yet the realization of the finality that had come. She felt that Majendie was in danger—in terrible danger; that she must get to him, somehow, some way, and fling herself in front of that awful something that threatened him, ward off, in some way prevent, the thing that was coming. She seized the arm of the terrified young man, imploring him, still dry-eyed: "Take me to him—at once—no—I must—take me—Bernard—oh!" She fell back exhausted, faint. "Be calm; please be calm," he repeated, helpless before the utter disorder of her suffering. All at once the annihilation of self into which she had fallen was succeeded by a quick paroxysm of energy. She bounded upright on the seat, seizing his arm so that the nails hurt him. "I will go to him!" she cried. "You shall not stop me. He may be only wounded. The report is false—must be false. I will go to him!"