WHITEWASH
Victoria. "The child—quick, quick! don't stand there staring; don't you see that in her weak condition this may be fatal?"
The garçon hurriedly blundered off, and while willing hands ministered to the other victims, Victoria worked with agonized suspense over the limp little body. The heavy, gasping breath, the persistent coma, and the pinched, waxen face, were terrifying. Would the doctor never come? The maid was regaining consciousness, and from the other room the incoherent ramblings of the countess announced returning life. But the child made no sound, only that horrible, rasping breath that rattled in her throat.
Sonia came to the bedside and leaned over. "I wish I knew what to do," she murmured, "but we've done all we can. I have sent half a dozen of those jabbering idiots to fetch the police, so I suppose that some time in the next week they will start on that man's track."
"Oh, why—oh, why didn't we give the alarm! We had him—caught—red-handed," Victoria moaned, as she bathed the unconscious face on the pillow. "The coolness of the villain," she
