Pierre got to his feet, dropped back, and hid his face. Then he was
up, and struggling past excited people down the row, out into the
aisle, along it, hurrying blindly down unknown passages till somehow
he got himself into that confused labyrinth behind the scenes. Here a
pale, distracted scene-shifter informed him that Miss West had already
been taken home.
Pierre got the address, found his way out to the street, hailed a
taxicab, and threw himself into it. He sat forward, every muscle
tight; he felt that he could take the taxicab up and hurl it forward,
so terrible was his impatience.
An apartment house was a greater novelty to him even than a theater,
but, after a dazed moment of discovering that he did not have to ring
or knock, but just push open the great iron-scrolled door and step
into the brightly lighted, steam-heated marble hall, he decided that
the woman at the desk was a person in authority, and to her he
addressed himself, soft hat gripped in his hand, his face set to hide
excitement.
The girl was pale and red-eyed. They had brought Miss West in a few
minutes ago, she told him, and carried her up. She was still
unconscious; poor thing! "I don't think you could see her, sir. Mr.
Morena is up there, and Mr. Gael, and a doctor. A trained nurse has
been sent for. Everything in the world will be done. She's such an
elegant actress, ain't she? I've often seen her myself. And so kind
and pleasant always. Yes, sir. I'll ask, if you like, but I'm sure
they won't allow you up."
She put the receiver to her ear, pushed in the black plug, and Pierre
listened to her questions.
"Can Miss West see any one? Can an old friend"--for so Pierre had
named himself--"be allowed to see her? No. I thought not." This, with
a sympathetic glance at Pierre. "She is not conscious yet. Dangerously
ill."
"Could I speak to the doctor?" Pierre asked hoarsely.
"The gentleman wants to know if he can speak to the doctor. Certainly
not at present. If he will wait, the doctor will speak to him on the
way out."
Pierre sat on the bench and waited. He leaned forward, elbows on
knees, head crushed in both hands, and the woman stared at him
pitilessly--not that he was aware of her scrutiny. His eyes looked
through his surroundings to Joan. He saw her in every pose and in
every look in which he had ever seen her, and, with a very sick and
frightened heart, he saw her, at the last, pass by him in her fur
coat, throwing him that half-contemptuous look and smile. She didn't
know him. Was he changed so greatly? Or was the change in her so
enormous that it had disassociated her completely from her old life,
from him? He kept repeating to himself Holliwell's stern, admonishing
speech: "However changed for the worse she may be when you do find
her, Pierre, you must remember that it is your fault, your sin. You
must not judge her, must not dare to judge her. Judge yourself.
Condemn yourself. It is for her to forgive if she can bring herself to
do it."