It was not Violet Winslow's scream, either.
"Like hell, she'll go," shouted a wildly familiar voice.
There was a gruff oath.
We stayed to hear no more. Garrick had already picked up the heavy
suitcase and was running down the steps two at a time, with myself
hard after him.
Without waiting to ring the bell at 99, he dashed the suitcase
through the plate glass of the front door, reached in and turned
the lock. We hurried into the back room.
Violet was lying across a divan and bending over her was
Warrington.
"She--she's unconscious," he gasped, weak with the exertion of his
forcible entrance into the place and carrying from the floor to
the divan the lovely burden which he had found in the room. "They-
-they fled--two of them--the maid, Lucille--and a man I could not
see."
Down the street we heard a car dashing away to the sound of its
changing gears.
"She's--not--dying--is she, Garrick?" he panted bending closer
over her.
Garrick bent over, too, felt the fluttering pulse, looked into her
dilated eyes.
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