"What do you wish me to do?" I asked presently.
It was like writing a composite novel, no one knowing what the other chapters were about. I had already forgotten that I had written a play which was to be produced the following night; I forgot everything but the potent charm of the mystery which sat beside me and which I was determined to unravel, as they say in detective stories.
"What do you wish me to do?" I repeated.
"I will tell you when the time comes. For your own sake, be advised by me and do nothing rash. You are so impulsive."
For my own sake do nothing rash: I was so impulsive! My hand wandered toward the door-latch, and fell. No! I would stick it out, whatever happened.
"You are not afraid, are you?" she asked.
"Afraid of what?"—adroitly.
"I was right in waiting for you,"—simply.
Maybe; that remained to be seen.