“No, you're a woman.”
She proceeded to do some thinking there upon the stairs.
“Oh,” she said, finally, “I know what to do. I'll follow him until he does go home, to make sure he doesn't attempt anything before that time, and then I'll tell the police. They'll watch him.”
“You'll probably get Mr. Tom Appleton into some very embarrassing complications by so doing.”
“What if I do,” she said, heroically, “if I save his life? Now, will you assist me to watch him? I'll need an escort in the street, of course.”
“I put myself at your command from now henceforth, if only for the joy of the time that I am thus privileged to pass with you.”
She smiled pleasantly, and with pleasure, trusting to her veil to hide the facial indication of her feelings. But Haslam's trained gray eye noted the smile, and also what kind of smile it was, and the discovery had a potent effect upon him. It deprived him momentarily of the power of speech, and he looked vacantly at her while colour came and went in his face.
Then he regained control of himself and he sighed audibly, while she dropped her eyes.
They were still standing upon the stairs, heedless of the confusion of vocal sounds that arose from the lobby strollers, from the boys selling librettos, from the people returning from the vestibule in a thick stream, from the musicians afar in the orchestra, tuning their instruments, from the many sources that provide the delightful hubbub of the entr'acte.
“Hush!” said Amy to Haslam. “Stand in front of me, so that Tom won't see me if he looks up here as he passes. He's coming this way.”