Mary knew that voice, although she could not at once identify it; but, though she sprang up so quickly that she wakened the tumbling Stevens, who slipped to the floor, she could not escape before she found herself directly regarding the flushed face, glowing gray eyes, and disordered hair of Philip Beekman.
Still young and slim in his yachting clothes, he looked at her, swaying a little in the doorway, his back to those perilous stairs, and with no clear recognition.
"Hello!" he said. "I think I've had the pleasure of meeting you somewhere before."
Mary's mouth tightened. She had herself now well in hand. She shook her russet head.
"I guess not," she said.
But her voice betrayed her.
"Good Lord!" said Beekman. The flush deepened on his face. With one hand he snatched his yachting-cap from his black hair; the other he suddenly held out to her, trembling. "Good Lord!" he repeated, this time with something that was nearly awe in his tone. "I—I—it's Violet! Will you——? Won't you please shake hands?"
Scarcely less amazed by his manner than was he by her appearance, she took his hand.
Beekman turned to someone on the stairs behind him.
"Get out, Mike!" he said. "I've found a friend."