He stood a moment, cautioning us in low tones. The girl would be startled—she was startled at seeing any one. But to be mildly startled might be good for her. He smiled. "Amnesia has been cured by a blow upon the head. But I don't recommend it."
We were to do no more than stand in the doorway. For a moment only.
"May I talk to her?" I suggested.
"That," he said, "would be useless. She could not understand; and her own words are wholly unrecognizable."
There was another door directly across the hall. It stood open, disclosing a bedroom, into the windows of which the setting sun was streaming. A man came to its doorway. Turber's Indian assistant, Alan afterward told me; evidently he was here on guard. He did not speak; he saw Dr. Turber, and moved back into the room.
But for that instant he was visible I think I have never had a more startling impression. A man, clad in trousers and white shirt; of huge stature, well over six feet. Straight black hair, parted in the middle; a red-brown face, flat-nosed. But more than that. I saw something about him which was uncanny. An indescribable impression of something incredibly sinister. Something weird.
He had a magazine in his hand. If it had been a tomahawk dripping blood, if his face with its broken nose had been streaked with ocher, if his body had been bare of those civilized garments—it would have seemed far more normal. He grunted as he met Dr. Turber's glance and turned away.
Turber repeated: "I think I would not speak to her—but you may if you like."
He knocked on the girl's door. He then turned the lock and pushed the door inward.