As he ran up the stairs he was confronted by what he took to be an old witch in a purple wrapper. She barred his way in a decidedly militant manner, her sunken black eyes flashing anger. She seemed about to spring at him.
"Bien," she croaked, "qui diable are you?"
He paused.
"You are Marie?" he demanded.
"Bien, and you?"
A voice came from a room leading from the hall. "Marie, who is it? Is it Ben?"
"I know not who it is," Marie shouted back; "but if he comes up another step I will tear out his eyes."
"Miss Arsdale," called Donaldson, "is anything the trouble? It is I—Donaldson."
"You!"
Her voice, which had at first sounded weary, as the voice of one who has waited a long while, gathered strength.