Anthony stepped across the sill. He was, as he had left Mr. Lucas ten minutes before, without hat or mackintosh. He seemed, as indeed he was, serenely unconscious of his appearance. But the pallor of fatigue, the blazing eyes, the labouring breath, the hatless head shining with wet, the half-sodden clothes, all had their effect upon Lucia. It had been for her an evening of horror. Now, surely, here was news of worse.
Her eyes questioned him. Her heart hammered at her breast. Speech she found impossible.
Anthony bowed. “Enter Fairy Godmother,” he said. “Preserve absolute calm. The large Mr. Deacon is a free man. Repentant policemen are busy scouring his ’scutcheon. I think it not unlikely that he will be here within an hour or so.”
Lucia was left without breath. “Oh—why—what——” she gasped.
He smiled at her. “Please preserve absolute calm. My nerves aren’t what they were. What do we do next? Tell little sister, I imagine.”
“You—I—I——” she stammered, and rushed from the room.
Anthony, having first covered the seat with a convenient newspaper, sank into a chair.
He communed with himself. “Lord, I’m wet! How is it that I can be melodramatic as well? I must curb this passion for effect. Still, it kept her off any expressions of gratitude and the like. Good God! Gratitude! It’s not that I want. And what do I want? All. Yes, all! But I must go softly. One must wait.” He shook himself. “And anyhow, you blasted idiot, what chance can you have?” He grew depressed.
The door burst open. There was a flurry of skirts. Dora, transfigured, rushed at him as he rose, words pouring from her. Anthony was dazed.
He waved hands to stem the flood. Arms were thrown about his neck. Warm lips were pressed to his cheek. Another flurry—and she was gone.