"Quite so," he said, blandly. "I lived in the Temple for several years, and did not know the name of the man on the floor below me, because the name was not painted on the doorpost. London is a city of strangers. Yes, yes. But may I trespass upon your kindness to the extent of asking you to give a simple message to my young friend, if he should return?"
"Yes, I will do so," said Celia.
"Thank you, thank you. If you will, please, say just the four words, 'It is all right.'"
Celia inclined her head; she could not speak; the blood surged to her face, then left it white; her eyes closed, she felt as if she were going to faint; the revulsion from terror to relief had been almost too great for her.
The old gentleman saw the effect his words had upon her; he looked at her curiously, his eyes piercing in their keenness.
"Tut! tut! What is the matter? Are you ill?" he asked, compassionately.
"No," Celia managed to enunciate. "I am tired. It is very hot—I was resting when—when you came, I am not very well."
"Oh, I am sorry, very sorry that I should have disturbed you," he said. "Pray forgive me. Is there anything I can do? Are you alone—I mean, is there anyone to take care of you?"
Celia was touched by the kindly, paternal note in his voice; the tears—they were those of joy and relief—rose to her eyes.
"No, I am alone," she said. "But I am all right; it was only a momentary faintness. I will deliver your message."