"I want to speak to the Prices," he said, and followed me through the slate-paved scullery into the big light kitchen.
It seemed full as a railway station of people gathered about the wood fire, sheltering or drying after that storm.
On the settle a dainty but ruffled figure in pale mauve was sitting and holding out tiny silk-stockinged feet to the blaze; her drenched white kid shoes stood on the range. Muriel caught in the wet!
She turned as I came in.
"Hullo, Joan; talk of angels!" she said.
Talk of angels, indeed. My eyes had flown past her to the man's figure standing close to the fire that lighted up his red tabs.
There he was, the very man of whom we had been talking. The man of whom I'd said I should never see him again as long as I lived!
I was face to face again with Harry Markham!
* * * * * * *
After the first moment of blankest astonishment, I realized that this was not so very startling after all.