“Not at all—not at all,” said Satterthwaite, easily. “Here, let me help you.”
The assistance was accepted. Tremaine rose shakily to his feet, stood docilely while Satterthwaite guided his arms into the sleeves of his coat. There was a curiously subtle difference in his expression; quite another, a gentler, more courteous personality looked out of those features which were Tremaine’s with a placid smile such as Mrs. Tremaine had never seen. Close though his head was to Satterthwaite’s, he evinced not the slightest sign of recognition.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “I’ll get along now.”
“Where do you live?” asked Satterthwaite, with a veiled glance at the young woman.
She held her breath, on this opening threshold of the mystery of the past two years.
“At the Newport Hotel,” he replied. He took a few steps and then stopped, his hand pressed to his brow. He turned to Satterthwaite. “I wonder whether you would mind my sitting here a little longer, sir?” he asked, apologetically. “I still feel somewhat faint and dizzy.”
“By all means,” replied Satterthwaite. “You are quite welcome to stay until you are recovered.”
The young woman marvelled at the quiet self-control of his voice. She felt as though she must shriek to break a nightmare.
“You are very kind,” he said. “I am afraid my wife will be anxious about me——”
His wife! The young woman choked back a cry. His wife! Then——