He lingered somewhat late at table, toying with his orange, and reading a Journal de Genève, captured from a neighbor, which contained an excellent "London letter." The room emptied. The two Swiss handmaidens came in to clear away soiled linen and arrange the tables for the morning's coffee. Only, at a farther table, a couvert for one person, set by itself, remained still untouched.
He happened to be alone in the room when the door again opened and a lady entered. She did not see him behind his newspaper, and she walked languidly to the farther table and sat down. As she did so she was seized with a fit of coughing, and when it was over she leaned her head on her hands, gasping.
Ashe had half risen—the newspaper was crushed in his hand—when the Swiss waitress whom the men of the inn called Fräulein Anna—who was, indeed, the daughter of the landlord—came back.
"How are you, madame?" she said, with a smile, and in a slow English of which she was evidently proud.
"I'm better to-day," said the other, hastily. "I shall start to-morrow. What a noise there is to-night!" she added, in a tone both fretful and weary.
"We are so full—it is the accident to the road, madame. Will madame have a thé complet as before?"
The lady nodded, and Frãulein Anna, who evidently knew her ways, brought in the tea at once, stayed chatting beside her for a minute, and then departed, with a long, disapproving look at the gentleman in the corner who was so long over his coffee and would not let her clear away.
Ashe made a fierce effort to still the thumping in his breast and decide what he should do. For the guests there was only one door of entrance or exit, and to reach it he must pass close beside the new-comer.
He laid down his newspaper. She heard the rustling, and involuntarily looked round.
There was a slight sound—an exclamation. She rose. He heard and saw her coming, and sat tranced and motionless, his eyes bent upon her. She came tottering, clinging to the chairs, her hand on her side, till she reached the corner where he was.