She reached both hands to his dripping shoulders. “Tom! Tom! I want to talk to you.” She was laughing, yet half in tears. “Oh, it’s ridiculous—it’s pitiful to think we are husband and wife, and—and you don’t even know my real name.”
He stared down at her. A slow tremor shook him. “Then you admit—that I don’t?”
“I know you don’t, you—you silly boy! Go and change your clothes. Then come back and talk to me. Come soon!”
In a wonderfully short time he rejoined her. Only his damp hair showed his late struggle with the robber, but his very quietness betrayed his emotion.
She was awaiting him on the cushioned locker, a lighted reading-lamp beside her.
“Sit down here,” she said. “Close! You needn’t be afraid of me. I—oh, I’ve a hundred things to say to you!”
“Good. It was thoughtful of you to bring out that lamp. I can see your face better while you talk.”
“And I yours—you dear boy.”
“Betty! Be careful what you say. I’ve got myself pretty well in hand, but I can’t stand much of that sort of thing.”
She laughed deliriously. “I brought the lamp to let you read something.” She produced an official-looking document. “Look at this. Do you know what it is?”