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FLOWERS FOR SHELAH FANE
55

“I beg pardon,” he said to no one in particular.

Outside, Shelah Fane’s admirers began another song. Bradshaw dashed through the curtains to the front door.

“Please,” he cried. “Please—no more to-night. You must go away now. Miss Fane can’t see you. She is—she is ill.”

“We are so sorry,” said the girl who seemed to be the leader. “Will you give her the flowers, please?”

They began to load him down with fragrant blossoms. Presently he staggered back into the hallway, his arms filled with a riot of color. Julie was standing there, her eyes wide, her face deathly pale.

“Flowers,” said Bradshaw. “Flowers for Shelah Fane.”

With a choking cry, Julie fell in a heap at his feet.

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