Miss Cigale did not understand; all she knew was that Geordie was here, and in danger.
“I—I don’t know that man,” she said, faintly.
“Never mind!” the detective retorted, laughing. “You will, soon enough!”
“No! Look here! It’s—it’s a mistake!” said Geordie. “It’s—I’ll drop it.”
Miss Cigale moved nearer to him.
“Pretend you don’t know me!” she whispered. “I’ll—”
V
That was the end of Miss Cigale’s struggle; at the critical moment she failed again, most shamefully. She fainted. That is what comes of preferring daisies to breakfast; of carrying romantic Victorian sentiments over into modern life. She fainted.
As long as she had failed, she thought she might as well do it thoroughly. She could have come to before she did; she could have opened her eyes before she did, only that there was nothing she cared to see. She could hear, too. She heard her nephew calling “Aunt Louisa!” but his low, furious tones did not make her in a hurry to answer. No; better to lie here, like this, for as long a time as she could.
“Aunt Louisa!” he said again, and this time his voice was quite desperate. She opened her eyes.