There was no answer. In a second his pistol was in his hand.
“Who's there? Quick, speak up or I'll shoot.”
“No, no, no, don't shoot,” cried an answering voice. “Oh, be careful. It's I—Hilma Tree.”
Annixter slid the pistol into his pocket with a great qualm of apprehension. He came forward and met Hilma in the doorway.
“Good Lord,” he murmured, “that sure did give me a start. If I HAD shot——”
Hilma stood abashed and confused before him. She was dressed in a white organdie frock of the most rigorous simplicity and wore neither flower nor ornament. The severity of her dress made her look even larger than usual, and even as it was her eyes were on a level with Annixter's. There was a certain fascination in the contradiction of stature and character of Hilma—a great girl, half-child as yet, but tall as a man for all that.
There was a moment's awkward silence, then Hilma explained:
“I—I came back to look for my hat. I thought I left it here this afternoon.”
“And I was looking for my hat,” cried Annixter. “Funny enough, hey?”
They laughed at this as heartily as children might have done. The constraint of the situation was a little relaxed and Annixter, with sudden directness, glanced sharply at the young woman and demanded: