Wilson threw his weight against the door, but this was no garden gate to give before such blows. At the end of a half dozen attempts, he paused, bruised and dizzy. It seemed impossible to force the bolt. Yet no sooner had he reached this conclusion than the necessity became compelling; the bolt must be forced. At such moments one’s emotions are so intensified that, if there be any hidden passion, it is instantly brought to light. With the impelling need of reaching the girl’s side–a frantic need out of proportion to any normal relationship between them–Wilson realized partly the instinct which had governed him from the moment he had first caught sight of her features in the rain. If at this stage it could not properly be called love, it was at least an obsessing passion with all love’s attributes. As he paused there in blinding fury at being baffled by this senseless wooden door, he saw her as he had seen the faces between the stars, looking down at him tenderly and trustingly. A lump rose to his throat and his heart grew big within him. There was nothing now–no motive, no ambition, no influence–which could ever control him until after this new great need was satisfied. All this came over him in a flash–he saw as one sees an entire landscape by a single stroke of lightning. Then he faced the door once again.
The simple accident of the muzzle of his revolver striking against the door knob furnished Wilson the inspiration for his next attack. He examined the cylinder and found that four cartridges remained. These were all. Each one of them was precious and would be doubly so once he was beyond this barrier. He thrust the muzzle of the revolver into the lock and fired. The bullet ripped and tore and splintered. Again he placed his shoulder to the door and pushed. It gave a trifle, but still held. He must sacrifice another cartridge. He shot again and this time, as he threw his body full against the bolt, it gave. He fell in atop the débris, but instantly sprang to his feet and stumbled along the hall to the stairway. He mounted this three steps at a time. At the door to the study he was again checked–there was no light within and no voice to greet him. He called her name; the ensuing silence was ghastly in its suggestiveness. He started through the door, but a slight rustling or creak caused him to dart back, and a knife in the hand of some unknown assailant missed him by a margin so slight that his sleeve was ripped from elbow to wrist.
With cocked revolver Wilson waited for the rush which he expected to follow immediately. Save that the curtains before him swayed slightly, there was nothing to show that he was not the only human being in the house. Sorez might still be within unconscious, but what of the girl? He called her name. There was no reply. He dashed through the curtains–for the sixteenth of a second felt the sting of a heavy blow on his scalp, and then fell forward, the world swirling into a black pit at his feet.
When Wilson came to himself he realized that he was in some sort of vehicle. The morning light had come at last–a cold, luminous gray wash scarcely yet of sufficient intensity to do more than outline the world. He attempted to rise, but fell back weakly. He felt his neck and the collar of the luxurious bath robe he still wore to be wet. It was a sticky sort of dampness. He moved his hand up farther and found his hair to be matted. His fingers came in contact with raw flesh, causing him to draw them back quickly. The carriage jounced over the roadbed as though the horses were moving at a gallop. For a few moments he was unable to associate himself with the past at all; it was as though he had come upon himself in this situation as upon a stranger. The driver without the closed carriage seemed bent upon some definite enough errand, turning corners, galloping up this street and across that. He tried to make the fellow hear him, but above the rattling noise this was impossible. There seemed to be nothing to do but to lie there until the end of the journey, wherever that might be.
He lay back and tried to delve into the past. The first connecting link seemed years ago,–he was running away from something, her hand within his. The girl–yes, he remembered now, but still very indistinctly. But soon with a great influx of joy he recalled that moment at the door when he had realized what she meant to him, then the blind pounding at the door, then the run upstairs and–this.
He struggled to his elbow. He must get back to her. How had he come here? Where was he being taken? He was not able to think very clearly and so found it difficult to devise any plan of action, but the necessity drove him on as it had in the face of the locked door. He must stop the carriage and–but even as he was exerting himself in a struggle to make himself heard, the horses slowed down, turned sharply and trotted up a driveway to the entrance of a large stone building. Some sort of an attendant came out, exchanged a few words with the driver, and then, opening the door, looked in. He reached out his hand and groped for Wilson’s pulse.
“Where am I?” asked Wilson.
“That’s all right, old man,” replied the attendant in the paternal tone of those in lesser official positions. “Able to walk, or shall I get a stretcher?”
“Walk? Of course I can walk. What I want to know is–”
But already the strong arms were beneath his shoulders and half lifting him from the seat.
“Slowly. Slowly now.”
Wilson found himself in a corridor strong with the fumes of ether and carbolic acid.
“See here,” he expostulated, “I didn’t want to come here. I–where’s the driver?”
“He went off as soon as you got out.”
“But where–”
“Come on. This is the City Hospital and you’re hurt. The quicker you get that scalp of yours sewed up the better.”
For a few steps Wilson walked along submissively, his brain still confused. The thought of her came once again, and he struggled free from the detaining arm and turned upon the attendant who was leading him to the accident room.
“I’m going back,” he declared. “This is some conspiracy against the girl. I’ll find out what it is–and I’ll–”
“The sooner you get that scalp fixed,” interrupted the attendant, “the sooner you’ll find the girl.”
The details of the next hour were blurred to him. He remembered the arrival of the brisk young surgeon, remembered his irritated greeting at sight of him–“Another drunken row, I suppose”–and the sharp fight he put up against taking ether. He had but one thought in mind–he must not lose consciousness, for he must get back to the girl. So he fought until two strong men came in and sat one on his chest and one on his knees. When he came out of this he was nicely tucked in bed. They told him that probably he must stay there three or four days–there was danger of the wound growing septic.
Wilson stared at the pretty nurse a moment and then asked, “I beg your pardon–how long did you say?”
“Three days anyway, and possibly longer.”
“Not over three hours longer,” he replied.
She smiled, but shook her head and moved away.
It was broad daylight now. He felt of his head–it was done up in turban-like bandages. He looked around for his clothes; they were put away. The problem of getting out looked a difficult one. But he must. He tried again to think back as to what had happened to him. Who had placed