It was her voice! HERS! The Tocsin! HERE! She was here—here in his house!
“You!” he cried. “You—here!” He was pressing the electric-light switch frantically, again and again.
Her voice came out of the darkness from across the room:
“Why are you doing that, Jimmie? You know already that I have turned off the lights.”
“At the sockets—of course!” He laughed out the words almost hysterically. “Your face—I have never seen your face, you know.” He was moving quickly toward the reading lamp on his desk.
There was a quick, hurried swish of garments, and she was blocking his way.
“No,” she said, in a low voice; “you must not light that lamp.”
He laughed again, shortly, fiercely now. She was close to him, his hands reached out for her, touched her, and thrilling at the touch, swept her toward him.
“Jimmie—Jimmie—are you mad!” she breathed.
Mad! Yes—he was mad with the wildest, most passionate exhilaration he had ever known. He found his voice with an effort.