The voice, a soft contralto, was the complement of the steady regard of the eyes. As she spoke, she rose and stepped toward him, down from the little dais to the rug. She rose, not with the effort which marks the act in most, but lightly, as a flower rises from the touch of a breeze. She was tall and lithe, and all the curves of her figure were long and low—once more suggesting the soft strength of the tigress. But when speech parted the lips, the smile which overspread her face won him.
"How can I serve you, my friend?" she repeated.
"I am in great trouble," said he.
"Yes," she purred.
"I saw your sign," he went on. "And I want you to tell me where I have been since June, 1896—and who is Eugene Brassfield? Did I kill him—or only rob him? And who is Elizabeth?"
She had stepped close to him now, as if to catch the scent of some disturbing influence which might account for such incoherence; but Amidon's breath was innocent of taint.
"Yes!" said she, "I think we shall be able to tell you all. But, are you well?"
"I have had no breakfast," said he. "When I found that I had lost five years—I forgot. And—once—I fainted. I'm not quite—well, I'm afraid!"
Madame le Claire stepped to the wall and pushed a button. The turbaned Sudanese reappeared at once.
"Aaron," said she, "tell Professor Blatherwick that Mr.—Mr.——"