There was no direct answer, only the door was pushed a little further open. He had stepped close to it now. The sweep of the wind was upon his face, although in the black darkness he could see nothing. And then a sudden recollection flashed in upon him. From his trousers pocket he snatched a little electric torch. In an instant his thumb had pressed the button. He turned it upon the door. The shivering white hand which held it open was plainly in view. It was the hand of a woman! He stepped swiftly forward. A dark figure almost fell into his arms.
“Mrs. Fentolin!” he exclaimed, aghast.
An hysterical cry, choked and subdued, broke from her lips. He half carried, half led her to his easy-chair. Suddenly steadied by the presence of this unlooked-for emergency, he closed the outside door and relit the lamp with firm fingers. Then he turned to face her, and his amazement at this strange visit became consternation.
She was still in her dinner-gown of black satin, but it was soaked through with the rain and hung about her like a black shroud. She had lost one shoe, and there was a great hole in her silk stocking. Her hair was all disarranged; one of its numerous switches was hanging down over her ear. The rouge upon her cheeks had run down on to her neck. She sat there, looking at him out of her hollow eyes like some trapped animal. She was shaking with fear. It was fear, not faintness, which kept her silent.
“Tell me, please, what is the matter?” he insisted, speaking as indifferently as he could. “Tell me at once what has happened?”
She pointed to the door.
“Lock it!” she implored.
He turned down the latch and drew the bolt. The sound seemed to give her a little courage. Her fingers went to her throat for a moment.
“Give me some water.”
He poured out some soda-water. She drank only a sip and put it down again. He began to be alarmed. She had the appearance of one who has suddenly lost her senses.