“Turn it,” he commanded. “I can’t reach it.”
“I’ll do nothing of the kind,” I said shrewishly. “Let me down; I can walk perfectly well.”
He hesitated. Then he slid me slowly to my feet, but he did not open the door at once. “Are you afraid to let me carry you down those stairs, after—Tuesday night?” he asked, very low. “You still think I did that?”
I had never been less sure of it than at that moment, but an imp of perversity made me retort, “Yes.”
He hardly seemed to hear me. He stood looking down at me as I leaned against the door frame.
“Good Lord!” he groaned. “To think that I might have killed you!” And then—he stooped and suddenly kissed me.
The next moment the door was open, and he was leading me down into the house. At the foot of the staircase he paused, still holding my hand, and faced me in the darkness.
“I’m not sorry,” he said steadily. “I suppose I ought to be, but I’m not. Only—I want you to know that I was not guilty—before. I didn’t intend to now. I am—almost as much surprised as you are.”
I was quite unable to speak, but I wrenched my hand loose. He stepped back to let me pass, and I went down the hall alone.