Guy Evans swept over the broad, smooth highway
at a rate that would have won him ten days in the jail
at Santa Ana had his course led him through that village.
The impression that Custer’s words had implanted in his
mind was that Grace was ill, for Pennington had not
gone into the details of his unhappy interview with
the girl, choosing to leave to her brother a realization of
her changed condition, which would have been incredible
to him even from the lips of so trusted a friend as Custer.
And so it was that when he approached the bungalow
on Circle Terrace, and saw a coupé standing at the curb,
he guessed at what it portended; for though there were
doubtless hundreds of similar cars in the city, there was
that about this one which suggested the profession of its
owner. As Guy hurried up the walk to the front door,
he was as positive that he would find Grace ill and a
doctor in attendance, as if some one had already told
him so.
There was no response to his ring, and as the inner
door was open he entered. A door on the opposite side
of the living room was ajar. As Guy approached it, a
man appeared in the doorway, and beyond him the visitor
could see Grace lying, very white and still, upon a bed.
“Who are you—this woman’s husband?” demanded
the man in curt tones.
“I am her brother. What is the matter? Is she very
ill?”
“Did you know of her condition?”
“I heard last night that she was not well, and I hurried
up here. I live in the country. Who are you? What
has happened? She is not—my God, she is not——”
“Not yet. Perhaps we can save her. I am a doctor.
I was called by a Japanese, who said that he was a servant
here. He must have left after he called me, for
I have not seen him. Her condition is serious, and requires
an immediate operation—an operation of such a
nature that I must learn the name of her own physician
and have him present. Where is her husband?”
“Husband! My sister is not——” Guy ceased speaking,
and went suddenly white. “My God, doctor, you
don’t mean that she—that my sister—oh, no, not that!”
He seized the other’s arm beseechingly. The doctor
laid his hand upon the younger man’s shoulder.
“She had a fall night before last, and an immediate
operation is imperative. Her condition is such that we
cannot even take the risk of moving her to a hospital. I
have my instruments in my car, but I should have help.
Who is her doctor?”
“I do not know.”
“I’ll get some one. I have given her something to
quiet her.”
The doctor stepped to the telephone and gave a number.
Evans entered the room where his sister lay. She
was moving about restlessly and moaning, though it was
evident that she was still unconscious.
Changed! Guy wondered that he had known her at
all, now that he was closer to her. Her face was pinched
and drawn. Her beauty was gone—every vestige of it.
She looked old and tired and haggard, and there were
terrible lines upon her face that stilled her brother’s
heart and brought the tears to his eyes.
He heard the doctor summoning an assistant and directing
him to bring ether. Then he heard him go out
of the house by the front door—to get his instruments,
doubtless. The brother knelt by the girl’s bed.
“Grace!” he whispered, and threw an arm about her.
Her lids fluttered, and she opened her eyes.
“Guy!”
She recognized him—she was conscious.
“Who did this?” he demanded. “What is his name?”
She shook her head.
“What is the use?” she asked. “It is done.”
“Tell me!”
“You would kill him—and be punished. It would
only make it worse—for—you—and mother. Let it
die with me!”
“You are not going to die. Tell me, who is he? Do
you love him?”
“I hate him!”
“How were you injured?”
“He threw me—against—a table.”
Her voice was growing weaker. Choking back tears
of grief and anger, the young man rose and stood beside
her.
“Grace, I command you to tell me!”
His voice was low, but it was vibrant with power and
authority. The girl tried to speak. Her lips moved, but
she uttered no sound. Guy thought that she was dying,
and taking her secret to the grave.
Her eyes moved to something beyond the foot of the
bed, back to his, and back again to whatever she had
been looking at, as if she sought to direct his attention to
something in that part of the room. He followed the
direction of her gaze. There was a dressing table there,
and on it a photograph of a man in a silver frame. Guy
stepped to the table and picked up the picture.
“This is he?”
His eyes demanded an answer. Her lips moved soundlessly,
and weakly she nodded an affirmative.
“What is his name?”
She was too weak to answer him. She gasped, and
her breath came flutteringly. The brother threw himself
upon his knees beside the bed, and took her in his arms.
His tears mingled with his kisses on her cheek. The
doctor came then and drew him away.
“She is dead!” said the boy, turning away and covering
his face with his hands.
“No,” said the doctor, after a brief examination. “She
is not dead. Get into the kitchen, and get some water
to boiling. I’ll be getting things ready in here. Another
doctor will be here in a few minutes.”
Glad of something to do, just to help, Guy hastened
into the little kitchen. He found a kettle and a large
pan, and put water in them to boil.
A moment later the doctor came in. He had removed
his coat and vest and rolled up his sleeves. He placed
his instruments in the pan of water on the stove, and
then he went to the sink and washed his hands. While
he scrubbed, he talked. He was an efficient-looking,
businesslike person, and he inspired Guy with confidence
and hope.
“She has a fighting chance,” he said. “I’ve seen
worse cases pull through. She’s had a bad time, though.
She must have been lying here for pretty close to twenty-four
hours without any attention. I found her fully
dressed on her bed—fully dressed except for what
clothes she’d torn off in her pain. If some one had called
a doctor yesterday at this time, it might have been all
right. It may be all right even now. We’ll do the best
we can.”
The bell rang.
“That’s the doctor. Let him in, please.”
Guy went to the door and admitted the second physician,
who removed his coat and vest and went directly
to the kitchen. The first doctor was entering the room
where Grace lay. He turned and spoke to his colleague,
greeting him; then he disappeared within the adjoining
room. The second doctor busied himself about the sink,
sterilizing his hands. Guy lighted another burner and
put on another vessel with water in it.
A moment later the first doctor returned to the kitchen.
“It will not be necessary to operate, doctor,” he said.
“We were too late!”
His tone and manner were still very businesslike and
efficient, but there was an expression of compassion in
his eyes as he crossed the room and put his arm about
Guy’s shoulders.
“Come into the other room, my boy. I want to talk
to you,” he said.
Guy, dry-eyed, and walking almost as one in a trance,
accompanied him to the little living room.
“You have had a hard blow,” said the doctor. “What
I am going to tell you may make it harder; but if she had
been my sister I should have wanted to know about it.
She is better off. The chances are that she didn’t want
to live. She certainly made no fight for life—not since
I was called.”
“Why should she want to die?” Guy asked dully. “We
would have forgiven her. No one would ever have known
about it but me.”
“There was something else—she was a drug addict.
That was probably the reason why she didn’t want to
live. The morphine I had to give her to quiet her would
have killed three ordinary men.”
And so Guy Evans came to know the terrible fate
that had robbed his sister of her dreams, of her ambition,
and finally of her life. He placed the full responsibility
upon the man whose picture had stood in its silver frame
upon the girl’s dressing table. As he knelt beside the
dead girl, he swore to search until he had learned the
identity of that man, and found him, and forced from
him the only expiation that could satisfy the honor of a
brother.
