"Really, Mr. Van Pycke, I—I can't have you here—I mean, it is so terribly late. I—I—"
"Were you horribly frightened?" he asked, somewhat irrelevantly. He had come up to her by this time, and, peering beyond, saw a splendid fire in the library grate. There were no lights in the room. A big chair stood before the fender, invitingly.
His teeth were chattering.
"I was almost petrified," she said rather breathlessly. "If you had not called out, I—I think my heart would have refused to beat again. Oh, I am so glad it is you and not a burglar!"
"May I come in and get warm?" he pleaded. She saw that he was shivering. With a quick glance over her shoulder she stood aside and allowed him to pass.
"You are cold," she said. "Sit down by the fire. I'll poke it up a bit. Just for a few minutes, and then you must go. I wonder if the racket alarmed the servants. You see, I am the only person in this part of the house, Mr. Van Pycke."
He looked up from the grate, over which he was holding his hands. "By the way, why are you not in bed? I distinctly remember you said good night—and started."
She hesitated. "I wasn't sleepy," she said.
"On the other hand, I slept very soundly," he said. "Have you been down here all this time?"
"Since twelve o'clock. I love a grate fire."