He was taken aback, and she was first to speak.
"Would you mind shaking hands?" said she.
"Miss Handyside, was it you?" he cried, taking her hand with diffidence.
She nodded. "At least, I suppose so, for it all happened so quickly that
I'm still in a state of wonder."
"It was splendid, miss! I shall never be able to thank you."
"I couldn't help doing it, though I'm not used to adventures. It was all done on an impulse."
"Woman's wit, miss, if you'll excuse my saying so."
"Well, I was in the dark in more senses than one, but the proceedings of those two gentlemen were so peculiar, to say the least of it, that I felt justified in playing the spy."
"When did you arrive on the scene, miss?" Caw enquired, removing his admiring glance. For several years he had adored the doctor's daughter—from a strictly artistic point of view, as he would have explained it—and undoubtedly Marjorie had her attractions, though it would be difficult to analyse and tabulate them. A Scot with more perception than descriptive powers would have called her bonny. To go into brief detail, she had nut-brown hair, eyes of unqualified grey, a complexion suggesting sea-air, splendid teeth in a humorously inclined mouth, and a nicely rounded chin. Very few people have beautiful noses; on the other hand, not the most beautiful nose will redeem an otherwise unattractive countenance, whereas an ordinary nondescript nose in a charming face simply becomes part of it. Marjorie's was nondescript, but did not turn up or droop excessively. Without being guilty of stoutness, she lacked the poorly nourished look of so many young women of the day.
"I must explain why I arrived at all," she said, in answer to Caw's question. "I came with a message from the doctor—he twisted his ankle in the dark—not seriously, but quite badly enough to prevent his coming along himself. Well, when I reached the door I noticed from a thread of light that it was not absolutely shut—"