As the portal swung open and he passed into the hall, the front door was violently pushed inward, and Barron almost fell against him in the hurry of his entrance.
The new-comer drew back from the departing stranger with an apologetic start.
“Beg your pardon,” he said bruskly, “but I thought I heard some one scream in here.”
“Scream?” said Essex, languidly selecting his hat from the disreputable collection on the rack; “I didn’t notice it, and I’ve been sitting in there for nearly an hour with Miss Moreau. I fancy you’ve made a mistake.”
“I guess I must have. It’s odd.”
The hall door slammed behind Essex, and the other man turned into the parlor, where the light was now very dim. In his exit from the room Essex had flung the door open with violence, and Mariposa, who had backed against the wall, was still standing behind it. As Barron pushed it to he saw her, a vague black figure with white hands and face, in the dark.
“What on earth are you doing there?” he said; “standing behind the door like a child in the corner.”
She thanked heaven for the friendly dark and answered hurriedly:
“I—I—I—didn’t want you to catch me. I’m so—so—untidy.”
“Untidy? I never saw you untidy, and don’t believe you ever were. I met a man in the hall, who said he’d been here for an hour. You must have been playing puss in the corner with him.”