No answer.
“Santa, why have you brought me?”
Gliding past him down the passage, she darted into the lighted room, leaving the door ajar behind her. He followed gropingly. As he entered, he was momentarily confused by the sudden change from darkness.
She was addressing him in a small, strained voice. “There's no need to be afraid.”
He looked about him, searching for the inspirer of fear. There was no one save themselves. Then he noticed how she trembled. She was making a brave effort to appear collected, but it was plain that she was wild with terror. Her eyes were wide and dilated. She stood on the defensive, backed against the fireplace, as though she were expecting violence. Her right hand was in advance of her body. It held something which caught the glow of the flames—a nickel-plated revolver, cocked and ready for immediate action. His reception was so different from anything he had anticipated that he stared with an amused expression of inquiry.
At last he asked, “You knew from the start that I thought you were Santa?”
Biting her lip to prevent herself from crying, she nodded. Far from being Santa, she was fair as any Dane, with China-blue eyes and the complexion of a wild rose. He noted the little wisps of curls which made a haze of gold about her forehead. She wore turquoise earrings. They were her only adornment. She herself was a decoration. She was like a statue of the finest porcelain, so flawless that she seemed unreal. Had it not been for her widow's mourning, he would have said that she was untouched by passionate experience. She had an appearance of provoking innocence, which made the paleness of her beauty ardent as a flame.
Speaking quietly, “I'm not easily frightened,” he said; “and you, while you keep me covered with that revolver, have no reason to be afraid. Any moment you choose you can kill me—you've only to press the trigger.”
Tears of horror sprang into her eyes. “But I don't want to kill you.”