Michael let both of them in with his
latch-key. In the hall the butler was lying prone, stunned by a
small statue which had been flung at him by the capricious violence
of the explosion. All the mirrors were shivered and most of the
pictures were down. At the entrance to the library cook was
standing, all of a tremble. The two little Adamses rushed up to him:
"Oh Sir Michael! Mummie is dead and Gran'ma is awfully hurted."
But Mummie--Mrs. Adams--was not dead; neither was the expensive
parlour-maid. Both had fainted or been stunned by the explosion on
their way to help their mistress. Both lay inanimate on the library
floor. The library glass door was shivered to dangerous jagged
splinters, but the iron framework--"Curse it"--remained a tangled,
maddening obstacle to his further progress. He could see through the
splinters of thick glass something that looked like Linda, lying on
her back--and--something that looked like blood. The policeman who
followed him was strong and adroit. Together they detached the glass
splinters and wrenched open the framework, with space enough, at any
rate, to pass through without the rending of clothes into the
studio.
Linda Rossiter was regaining consciousness for just a few more
minutes of sentient life. She was aware there had been a dreadful
accident to some one; perhaps to herself. But she fully believed she
had first of all saved the precious jars.
Pages:
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454