The door swung open quickly—some one entered. By the dim light in the hall behind, she saw that it was a man—a gentleman in evening clothes, with a hat on the back of his head, and a coat over his arm.
But while her alert senses took that in, the door closed again—the man had remained inside.
The thought of making a dash for the door came to her, but it was too late.
She heard the scratching of a match—a muttered oath at the darkness in a thick voice—then a sudden flood of light blinded her.
She drew her hands quickly across her eyes, and was conscious that the man had flung his hat and coat on the bed before he turned to face her.
In a moment all her fear was gone.
She stumbled weakly as she ran toward him, crying hysterically, "Jack, dear Jack, how did you find me? I should have gone mad if you had been much later! Take me home! Take me home—"
Had Miss Moreland fainted, as a well-conducted girl of her class ought to have done, this would have been a very different kind of a story.
Unluckily, or luckily, according as one views life—in the relief of his presence, all danger of that fled. Unluckily for him, also, the appearance of his bride-elect in such an unexpected place was so appalling to him that his nerve failed him entirely. Instead of clasping her in his arms as he should have done, he had the decency to recoil, and cover his face instinctively from her eyes.
Miss Moreland stopped as if turned to stone.