I professed myself happy to come whenever I could find the time, and looked about for Luella. She was nowhere to be seen. I left the room a little disappointed, but with a swelling of pride that I had passed the dreaded ordeal and had been accepted as Henry Wilton in the house in which I had most feared to meet disaster. My opinion of my own cleverness had risen, in the language of the market, “above par.”
As I passed down the hall, a tall willowy figure stepped from the shadow of the stair. My heart gave a bound of delight. It was Luella Knapp. I should have the pleasure of a leave-taking in private.
“Oh, Miss Knapp!” I said. “I had despaired of having the chance to bid you good night.” And I held out my hand.
She ignored the hand. I could see from her heaving bosom and shortened breath that she was laboring under great agitation. Yet her face gave no evidence of the effort that it cost her to control herself.
“I was waiting for you,” she said in a low voice.
I started to express my gratification when she interrupted me.
“Who are you?” broke from her lips almost fiercely.
I was completely taken aback, and stared at her in amazement with no word at command.
“You are not Henry Wilton,” she said rapidly. “You have come here with his name and his clothes, and made up to look like him, and you try to use his voice and take his place. Who are you?”
There was a depth of scorn and anger and apprehension in that low voice of hers that struck me dumb.