The draught through the hall was blowing upon him; the double doors upon the veranda had been left open for coolness. “There,” he said, pointing to them.
“But—I heard you come from the other direction.”
He was breathing quickly; he saw his chance—if Jefferson Bareaud did not come now.
“You did not hear me come down the stairs.” He leaned toward her, risking it all on that.
“Ah!” A sigh too like a gasp burst from Crailey. His head lifted a little, and his eyes were luminous with an eagerness that was almost anguish. He set his utmost will at work to collect himself and to think hard and fast.
“I came here resolved to take a man away, come what would!” he said. “I found the door open, went to the foot of that stairway; then I stopped. I remembered something; I turned, and was going away when you opened the door.”
“You remembered what?”
Her strained attitude did not relax, nor, to his utmost scrutiny, was the complete astonishment of her distended gaze altered one whit, but a hint of her accustomed high color was again upon her cheek and her lip trembled a little, like that of a child about to weep. The flicker of hope in his breast increased prodigiously, and the rush of it took the breath from his throat and choked him. Good God! was she going to believe him?
“I remembered—you!”
“What?” she said, wonderingly.