“By all that's holy,” came in a man's voice, low-toned and uncertain; “it is a dream, after all!”
She turned like a flash, with a startled exclamation and an instinctive movement as if to shield herself from unbidden gaze. Her lips parted and her heart pounded like a hammer. Standing in the doorway was Randolph Shaw, his figure looming up like monstrous, wavering genie in the uncertain light from the shaking lantern. His right hand was to his brow and his eyes were wide with incredulous joy. She noticed that the left sleeve of his dinner jacket hung limp, and that the arm was in a white sling beneath.
“Is it really you?” he cried, his hand going instinctively to his watch-pocket as if doubting that it was night instead of morning.
“I've—I 've run away from them,” she stammered. “It's two o'clock—don't look! Oh, I'm so sorry now—why did I—”
“You ran away?” he exclaimed, coming toward her. “Oh, it can't be a dream. You are there, aren't you?” She was a pitiable object as she stood there, powerless to retreat, shaking like a leaf. He took her by the shoulder. “Yes—it is. Good Lord, what does it mean? What has happened? How did you come here? Are you alone?”
“Utterly, miserably alone. Oh, Mr. Shaw!” she cried despairingly. “You will understand, won't you?”
“Never! Never as long as I live. It is beyond comprehension. The wonderful part of it all is that I was sitting in there dreaming of you—yes, I was. I heard some one out here, investigated and found you—you, of all people in the world. And I was dreaming that I held you in my arms. Yes, I was! I was dreaming it—”
“Mr. Shaw! You should n't—”
“And I awoke to find you—not in my arms, not in Bazelhurst Villa, but here—here on my porch.”
“Like a thief in the night,” she murmured. “What do you think of me?”