“You haven’t asked me about Sedgwick,” he continued.
“Is he well?” she inquired formally, but with quickened breath.
“He is more than that. He is cured—and a man. A man,” he added meaningly, “for any woman to be proud of.”
There was a step on the floor above. Marjorie Blair’s hand went to her heart.
“I didn’t know he was here,” she panted affrightedly. “I came just to—look at the place. Then I saw the light, and I wanted so to come in; but I didn’t dare. I can’t see him now! I must go! Don’t tell—”
Chester Kent raised his voice. “Frank!” he called. “Come down here! Quick!”
Not twice in his life had Sedgwick heard that tone in his friend’s voice. The bungalow shook to his long tread across the floor. The studio door opened and flew shut behind him. He took the stairs at a leap, and on the landing stopped dead.
“Marjorie!” he whispered.
She shrank back a little from the light in his eyes.
“What do you do here?” he said very low.