The room was quite light. In fact, the gas was lit, and the intruder was taking his utmost ease. His face was half turned toward the girl, and she recognized him without difficulty.
It was Hannibal!
Hannibal, whom she supposed at that moment in France!
Without pausing to form any plan, Millicent stepped into the presence of the negro.
"Thief," she said, sharply, "what do you want?"
They had hated each other cordially for a long time, and neither had changed their opinion in the slightest degree. Hannibal looked up quietly at the figure in the doorway.
"I have a good mind to tell you," he said, smiling.
"You will have to tell me, and give a pretty good reason, too, if you mean to keep out of the hands of the police," she retorted. "Come!"
He laughed silently, resting his head on his hands, his elbows on the desk. Millicent's hair hung in a loose coil, her shoulders were but imperfectly covered by her half buttoned gown, the feet that filled her slippers had no hosiery on them. She was as fair a sight as one might find in a year.