In his shirt-sleeves, a hammer in his hand, he threw open the door. Then he stood there in silence, gazing at the girl before him.
She spoke first. “Bob,” she asked, quickly, “may I come in? Please let me. I don’t want any one to see me here; if I can help it.”
He did not answer; but, still without taking his eyes from her face, he stepped aside. She brushed past him and entered the room. It was the first time she had crossed its threshold since the day when she brought her uncle there to see her portrait.
“Please shut the door,” she said. He did so. Then he would have spoken, but she did not give him the opportunity.
“Don’t ask me why I am here,” she begged. “I just came because—because I felt that I had to. Don’t ask me anything. I will ask and—and you must answer. Bob, will you please tell me all about this thing? Tell me the truth—all of it.”
He had had no time in which to collect his thoughts. He made no attempt to answer. His hand struck the back of a chair and he moved it toward her.
“Won’t you sit down?” he faltered.
She pushed the chair impatiently away. “Oh, don’t!” she cried. “Don’t waste time. Of course I won’t sit down. Did you think I had come to make a formal call? Bob! Bob, please answer my questions! Tell me everything, just as it was, where and how you found him that night. And if— Oh, everything!”
He understood now. She, too, had heard the rumor, the story to which Foster Townsend had referred. In all probability every one had heard it by this time. But what did she believe concerning him—and his part in the affair? That was what he must know.
“I see,” he said, slowly. “Of course—yes.... Well, what do you want me to tell?”