Just then the doctor threw open the door, and carefully led in his companion.
“Ah, Grey, you here!” he cried. “Back again. Mary, my love! I’ve brought you a surprise.”
He dropped his companion’s hand, and she stood there veiled and swaying slightly, while he made as if to embrace his wife.
“Hallo!” he exclaimed, as she shrank away.
“Don’t—don’t touch me,” she cried, in a low, angry voice, “never again, Bolter; I could not bear it!”
“Why, what the—Oh, I see! Of course! Ha, ha, ha!”
Mrs Bolter stared at him fiercely, then at his companion, as in a curious, hasty way, she tore away her veil with trembling hands, revealing the swarthy skin and blackened and filed teeth, seen between her parted lips; her hair dark as that of the Inche Maida, and fastened up roughly in the Malay style. She was trying to speak, for her bosom was heaving, her hands working; and at last she darted an agonising glance at Grey Stuart, who was trembling in wonderment and fear.
The next moment the stranger had thrown herself at Mrs Bolter’s feet, and was clinging to her dress, as she cried hysterically:
“Mrs Bolter—Grey—have pity on me! You do not know?”
“Helen!” cried Grey; and she filing her arms round her schoolfellow, as Mrs Bolter uttered that most commonplace of common expressions—