coat, steadied
her with an effort. Fortunately there was no need to look out and stop
the chauffeur. That afternoon O'Reilly had passed the building, informed
by Count Lovoresco who lived there, and had looked up with a certain
curiosity. He remembered the number, and in leaving the Dietz had been
able to give the address.

The taxi stopped, and O'Reilly prepared to carry the fainting girl into
the house. She would be a light load. As he got out of the taxi with Clo
in his arms a man came forward.

"Won't you let me help you, sir?" he civilly inquired.

"You may run ahead," said O'Reilly. "I can manage the young lady
myself."

The man who had offered his services disappeared into the house, and
found the porter, a substantial person in livery. Clo conveniently
revived when placed on the seat of the lift. O'Reilly sat by her side,
supporting the limp body, her hat in his hand, while the porter shot the
elevator up to the Sands' floor.

"Lord a'mighty!" the old fellow exclaimed, "if this ain't the poor child
that's been an invalid all these weeks! Mrs. Sands will be in a way!
Must be near eight weeks since this little gal was brought in on a
stretcher, lookin' like dead. She ought to be in bed."

"Somebody should have looked after her," said O'Reilly.

"That's it, sir. Her nurse is out, gaddin'."

"Brute!" Clo heard O'Reilly mutter. And leaning comfortably against his
shoulder she felt wicked, treacherous, because she had more than once
applied the same epithet to him. Whatever happened, never would she do
that again!

The elevator stopped. The porter touched the electric bell at the Sands'
door, and almost instantly a manservant appeared. His cry of surprise
brought Mrs. Sands herself out from a room at the end of the hall. The
porter tried to explain everything; failed; broke off to question
O'Reilly; O'Reilly answered; Beverley exclaimed; and among them, all was
confusion. Clo, looking through half-shut eyes over her bearer's
shoulder, saw a shadow flit between the portieres. Had some one come in?
If so, who could it be? Or was it only the shadow of a blowing curtain
she had seen? The question did not strike her as important just then,
for if any one had passed it was doubtless a servant or, at worst,
Sister Lake. Besides, Clo had much to think of; how to come back to
consciousness quickly without rousing suspicion, and, when officially
alive again, how to escape for the next errand.

The rush of air and