"I don't blame you, madam, for whatever thoughts you may have. I have traveled so fast and so far that I am really dazed. But if you will kindly tell me where we are, in what country, state, province or territory,—anything—it will be doing me a great service."
In a constrained voice, and in a tone which made it reasonably clear that this conversation was affording her little pleasure, she replied:
"We are near the city of Worcester, in England."
For a moment he stood in silence. Then, with a certain weariness in his voice, "Thank you. I hope you will pardon my disturbing you."
"Certainly."
Again he moved away.
This man's voice stirred memories. But these memories—of some far-away past—were dim and elusive. Vainly she tried to recall either when or where she had known the voice. Just as he was turning from the bar of light to disappear into the outer gloom, there came to her a gleam of memory from the distant past. Quickly she stood up in the car, her lips parted to call aloud. But she hesitated. A mistake, under present conditions, might prove more than awkward. So she uttered no sound. The stranger, however, as if responding to the unuttered words—to the thought itself—turned about and came toward the car. He walked quickly, but with the same unsteadiness as when he first appeared; and always with a hand before his eyes to shut out the blinding glare of the headlight. When alongside the car, again invisible in the darkness, he said:
"Yes, I am Drowsy. Who calls me?"
She was startled as she realized, in a kind of terror, that the unspoken message must have reached him. However, she answered, simply:
"Ruth Heywood."