Hours passed. She sat in a sort of trance of horror, Robin's letter spread out beneath her nerveless fingers. She did not ask herself what she should do. The blow had stunned all her faculties. She could only sit there face to face with despair, staring blind-eyed before her, motionless, cold as marble to the very heart of her. She fancied—she even numbly hoped—that she was going to die.
She never heard repeated knocking at her door, or remembered that it was locked, till a man's shoulder burst it open. Then, indeed, she turned stiffly and looked at the intruder.
"You!" she said.
She had forgotten Brett Mercer.
He came forward quickly, stooped and looked at her; then went down on his knee and thrust his arm about her.
She sat upright in his hold, not yielding an inch, not looking at him. Her eyes were glassy.
For a little he held her; then gently but insistently he drew her to him, pillowed her head against him, and began to rub her icy cheek.
"I've left you alone too long," he said.
She suffered him dumbly, scarcely knowing what she did. But presently the blood that seemed to have frozen in her veins began to circulate again, and the stiffness passed from her limbs. She stirred in his hold like a frightened bird.
"I'm sorry!" she faltered.