lter--was
ringing and knocking at his front door to ascertain the damage and
possible loss of life. Michael let both of them in with his
latch-key. In the hall the butler was lying prone, stunned by a
small statue which had been flung at him by the capricious violence
of the explosion. All the mirrors were shivered and most of the
pictures were down. At the entrance to the library cook was
standing, all of a tremble. The two little Adamses rushed up to him:
"Oh Sir Michael! Mummie is dead and Gran'ma is awfully hurted."

But Mummie--Mrs. Adams--was not dead; neither was the expensive
parlour-maid. Both had fainted or been stunned by the explosion on
their way to help their mistress. Both lay inanimate on the library
floor. The library glass door was shivered to dangerous jagged
splinters, but the iron framework--"Curse it"--remained a tangled,
maddening obstacle to his further progress. He could see through the
splinters of thick glass something that looked like Linda, lying on
her back--and--something that looked like blood. The policeman who
followed him was strong and adroit. Together they detached the glass
splinters and wrenched open the framework, with space enough, at any
rate, to pass through without the rending of clothes into the
studio.

Linda Rossiter was regaining consciousness for just a few more
minutes of sentient life. She was aware there had been a dreadful
accident to some one; perhaps to herself. But she fully believed she
had first of all saved the precious jars. No doubt they had put her
to bed, and as there was something warm (her blood, poor thing)
round her body, they must have packed her with hot water bottles.
Some idea of Michael's no doubt. How _kind_ he was!

She would soon get right, with him to look after her. She opened
her eyes to meet his, as he bent over her, and said with the ghost
of an arch smile: "I--have been--of some use--to you, haven't--I?
... (then the voice faltered and trailed away) ... I ...
saved--your--specimens--"

CHAPTER XIX

BERTIE ADAMS

One day, early in April, 1917, Vivie was standing in a corridor of
the Hopital de St. Pierre talking to Minna von Stachelberg. She had
just come from the railway station, where in common with the few
British and Americans who remained in Brussels she had been to take
a respectful and grateful farewell of the American Minister and his
wife, who were leaving Belgium for Holland, prior to the American
declaration of w