“Now, for God's sake, don't you go and faint!” said he. “I tell you it's nothing--nothing at all.” She was crying now. “Quit your blubbering! Quit it!... Here!”--he reached painfully into his pocket, produced a bank note--“run over to the drug store--there's one just across, on the corner--and get some things--bandages, cotton, something to wash it off with. And hurry! I've got to be out of here in ten minutes.” “You won't let me call a doctor, Mr. Mann?” “Call nothing! You do as I tell you. Understand!” She took the money and slipped out, carefully closing the door after her. Peter, flat on the sofa, peered about him. He wished the room were less brightly lighted. And it was disagreeably full of flowers. The air was heavy with the scent of them--like a funeral. Doubtless it would have been the decent thing for him to have sent Grace a few roses. If only for old times' sake. The window shade was swaying in the soft September breeze--what if Marla should be out there in the alley, peeping in? The sweat burst out on his forehead. _Had_ they held her? God--if they hadn't. His gaze drooped to the painful spectacle of his own person. He was a sight. There was blood all over his hands now, and on his clothes. The paper he gripped was stained with it. It had got on the sofa. It was on the floor. The door-knob, the door itself, the wall beside it, were marked with it. What if Grace should come in! What could he say? Could he say anything? His mind darted about this way and that, like a rat in a trap. This was awful! Where was that girl? Why, in Heaven's name, didn't she come hack? It seemed to him that hours were passing. He observed that the blood came faster when he moved, and he lay very still.... Hours--hours--hours! There were sounds outside. Some one ran up the iron stairs. Then some one else. People were speaking. The act--the play--was over. He raised himself on his elbow. There was another step in the corridor, a step he knew. He let himself slowly down. The door swung open. Grace, tired, a far-away look in her eyes, was coming slowly in. Then she fairly sprang in--and closed the door sharply. She was across the room before he could collect his thoughts and on her knees, her arms about him. “Peter!” “Look out, Grace. You'll get all covered with this stuff.” Her eyes, wide, horror-struck, were fastened on his. “Peter--how awful! What is it? What has happened?” Her solicitude was unexpectedly soothing. His self-respect came creeping back, a thought shamefaced. He even smiled faintly. “I don't know, Grace, dear. Something happened--out in the street. A fight, I think. I was walking by. Then I was stabbed.” “Oh--oh!” she moaned, “some dreadful mistake!” “Isn't it silly!” “I'll have Neuerman get Doctor Brimmer.” “No--please--” But she rushed out. In a moment she was back, with an armful of parcels. “Poor Minna--” “I sent her to the drug store.”