“Click!” said Dangerfield, snatching his hand away from the clutch of her fingers and shuddering. “Got me! No, no; it’s not true! I know what you’re trying to make me believe! But it’s not true—not true!” he shouted vehemently. Then, as the echoes seemed to return to him on the silences of the night, he repeated in a whisper, “not true!”
“Water,” Inga said.
He frowned, took the glass eagerly, and stared at her.
“Who’s that?”
“Inga.”
“You’re sure?” His hand came creeping toward her and up over her hair, groping for her features. “The eyes—the eyes—strange eyes! Inga—Inga Sonderson—sounds like the sea rolling in. Only, you mustn’t—mustn’t get to caring what becomes of me—it’s no use.”
“But I do care,” she said, in her deep voice.
The mist that was wavering in his brain seemed to vanish at the sound of her words.
“What’s happened?” he said slowly, frowning as though to bring back all his faculties. “Where am I?”
“You’re here, in your studio,” she said quickly, “quite safe.”