“There!” he said, “that’s Mrs. Ryan. Now we’ll hear who it was.”
For a moment they both sat silent, listening, the actor with his face looking sharp and pale in the suspense of the moment, the muscles of his lean cheeks working. The rustle of Berny’s dress sounded from the stairway and grew in volume as she slowly ascended. The two men rose to their feet.
“Come in the den for a moment, Berny,” Dominick called. “There’s a gentleman here who wants to see you.”
The rustle advanced up the hall, and the portière was drawn back. Bernice, brilliantly dressed, a mauve orchid pinned on her bosom, stood in the aperture, smiling.
Buford’s back was against the light, and, for the first moment she only saw him as a tall masculine outline and her smile was frank and natural. But he saw her plain as a picture and before Dominick could frame the words of introduction, started forward, crying,
“Bernice Iverson!”
She drew back as if struck and made a movement to drag the portière over her. Her face went white to the lips, the patches of rouge standing out on her cheeks like rose-leaves pasted on the sickly skin.
“Who—who’s that?” she stammered, turning a wild eye on Dominick.
“Mr. Ryan,” the actor cried, beside himself with excitement, “this is my wife! This is the woman I’ve been talking of! Bernice, don’t you know me? Junius Carter?”
“He’s crazy,” she faltered, her lips so loose and tremulous they could hardly form the words. “I never saw him before. I don’t know what he’s talking about. Who’s Junius Carter?”