ssible. When they reached the hotel he was shown into the
Wyatt's private sitting-room. Jimmy was there at the telephone; he
hung up the receiver as Sangster entered the room; he turned a white,
worried face.

"Awful thing, isn't it?" he said. Even his voice sounded changed; it
had lost its usual light-heartedness.

"It's given me a most awful shock," he said again. "She was as well as
anything last night; nobody had any idea----" He broke off with a
choke in his voice. "Poor little Christine," he said after a moment.
"We can't do anything with her. I wondered if you--but I suppose you
can't," he added hopelessly.

"Where is Miss Wyatt?" Sangster asked. His kind face was very grave,
but there was a steadiness in his eyes--the eyes of a man who might be
trusted.

"She's in her room; we had to take her away forcibly from--from her
mother. . . . You don't know what a hell I've been through, old chap,"
said Jimmy Challoner.

Sangster frowned.

"You!" he said with faint cynicism. "What about that poor little girl,
then; she----" The door opened behind them, and Christine came in.
She stood for a moment looking across at the two men with blank eyes,
as if she hardly recognised them. Her face was white and haggard;
there was a stunned look in her eyes, but Sangster could see that she
had not shed a tear. He went forward and took her hand. He drew her
into the room, shutting the door quietly. Jimmy had walked over to the
window; he stood staring into the street with misty eyes. He had never
had death brought home to him like this before. It seemed to have made
an upheaval in his world; to have thrown all his schemes and
calculations out of gear; life was all at once a thing to be feared and
dreaded.

He could hear Sangster talking to Christine behind him; he could not
hear what he was saying; he was only too thankful that his friend had
come. The last hours which he had spent alone with Christine had been
a nightmare to him. He had been so unable to comfort her; he had been
at his wits' end to know what to do or say. She was so utterly alone;
she had no father--no brothers to whom he could send. He had wired to
an uncle of whom she had told him, but it was impossible that anyone
could arrive before the morning, he knew.

Sangster was just the sort needed for a tragedy such as this; was a
brick--he always knew what to say and do.

The room seemed very silent; the whole world seemed silent too, as