Then tragedy broke into the room, tragedy in the shape of a man demented. For fifteen years Bellamy had known Arthur Dorward, but this man was surely a stranger! He was hatless, dishevelled, wild. A dull streak of color had mounted almost to his forehead, his eyes were on fire.
"Bellamy!" he cried. "Bellamy!"
Words failed him suddenly. He leaned against the table, breathless, panting heavily.
"For God's sake, man," Bellamy began,-"Alone!" Dorward interrupted. "I must see you alone! I have news!"
Mademoiselle Idiale rose. She touched Bellamy on the shoulder.
"You will come to me, or telephone," she whispered. "So?"
Bellamy opened the door and she passed out, with a farewell pressure of his fingers. Then he closed it firmly and came back.