Quite suddenly she turned upon Audrey such an imploring, piteous look that the younger woman was deeply moved.
“I have need of friends myself,” said she, in a broken voice, “and I have no power, no influence with anybody. But if I could do anything for them, believe me I would, oh, I would!”
The stranger rose, held out her long, slim hand, and grasped that of Audrey.
“I thank you, and I trust you,” she said simply under her breath. Then she turned to the door, but paused to say: “No. I won’t go out like that. Better not. These people will let him know who has been here. For both our sakes we must play them a trick. Ring the bell, and let them find you cowering in a corner of the room, as if you were frightened. Tell the servants I’m a madwoman who has been raving incoherently, and that you can’t make out who I am.”
“But,” said Audrey, “might that not help him to get you back to the asylum again?”
The visitor laughed shrewdly.
“He won’t trouble about putting me in if he thinks I really am mad,” she replied quietly.
There was strong sense in this view, and Audrey carried out her suggestion to the letter, rang the bell, then withdrew into a corner of the room, behind an armchair, while the visitor stood, gaunt and forbidding, in the middle of the floor.
When Barnard appeared in answer to her summons, Audrey told him, with an appearance of alarm, to show the lady out, and made gestures to him to intimate that she was mad. The gaunt visitor went with a wild laugh, muttering to herself, and carried out her part of the stratagem so well that Barnard himself closed the door very quickly behind her, under the impression that he was indeed shutting out a dangerous lunatic.
Then Audrey, suffering from the reaction after the intense excitement caused by the interview with her visitor, went shuddering and shivering up the stairs, locked herself into her room, and at once began to pack up for immediate departure.