"Open—open the door. Jack, it is I!"
At the sound of that voice the pistol fell from my hands altogether. Striking the carpet with a thud, it exploded under my feet and knocked a great hole in the wainscot. For an instant the room was full of smoke, gunpowder, and a mighty noise; but the moment I recovered my courage I unfastened the door and confronted the cause of it—Cynthia Carew! She too was the victim of a not unnatural bewilderment, and as pale as linen.
"Ods sputterkins!" she cried. "What a taking you have put me in! I am all of a twitter. Whose brains have you spilt? Not your own, I'll warrant me, for you never had any. Give me a kiss now, and get me some ratafia to compose me, and we'll let it pass."
"Cynthia," I gasped, but giving her the first of these requisites, "how came you here, in heaven's name?
"Ratafia!" she cried, "ratafia, or I perish."
"There's never a drop in the place," says I. "No, nor cherry-brandy, nor aromatic vinegar neither."
"Another kiss then," says Cynthia, pressing her white cheek against me, and casting her arms about my neck.
I led her within and set her down on the couch. She bore all the evidences of having made a long journey. So far from being dressed in the modishness that was wont to charm St. James's Park, she was covered by a long, dun-coloured cloak, wore a country hat, if I'm a judge of 'em, in which the feathers were crumpled; her shoes were muddy, and she carried a strange look of fear and uneasiness that I had never seen about her before. I procured a clean glass and filled it with wine from the last bottle and made her drain it, for she looked so pale and overborne.
"Now," says I, "how came you here? and what brings you?"
"Oh, Jack," says she, "I am run away." She suddenly broke forth into a flood of tears.