"... I love you, my dear, I love you...."
That was what she had said.
But why had she spoken in French?
Even as he hesitated in an agony of indecision, the door burst open. The frail, white-haired figure of Professor Duchard, Elaine's father, stumbled into the room. His eyes were sleep-fogged, and spindly, pajama-clad legs showed below the dressing gown he had thrown about his thin shoulders.
"What is it? What has happened?" he mumbled. Even in his dazed state, he pronounced every syllable. There were no slurrings nor contractions in Professor Duchard's punctilious vocabulary.
"Elaine's fainted."
"Then carry her to her room. I shall get smelling salts from the medicine cabinet."
Turning, the professor scurried away. Mark followed, Elaine's soft body still limp and yielding in his arms. Ascending the stairs to her room, he laid her tenderly on the bed. Even as he did so, the girl's father hurried to his side, a dark green bottle in his hand. The old man was more fully awake now, and he looked down at his daughter with keen, intelligent eyes. Although outwardly he appeared calm, there was a little flicker of worry deep within those sharp blue optics.
"This should revive her!" he announced, waving the bottle. Pulling out the glass stopper, he held the container close under the girl's nose.
Elaine drew a little breath. The fumes swirled into her nostrils. She choked. Jerked spasmodically.