“Number nineteen this side,” the porter was saying. “That number sixteen.”
So Sir Robert came heavily along the hall and entered the opposite room. We, the woman and I, heard the porter set down his hand baggage. We heard him order hot water. We heard the door close and the porter rustle away in his robe and his soft Chinese shoes and go off down the stairs.
Then, hardly knowing what I was about, I reached for the knob. But she came swiftly across the floor and caught it ahead of me, holding the door shut. Our hands touched. She looked very lovely, and very tired. My eyes wandered aimlessly over the kimono she wore, of gray crepe silk. It was embroidered from neck to hem in a wistaria pattern of the same soft gray color. I never saw such exquisite embroidery.
“Don't go out there,” she said, low but very positive.
“But,” I whispered lamely, “but—but—”
“The other door,” she said.
So we went back and moved that cursed bureau again. It was even more of a task this time, as we had to be careful about making any noise.
Again I lingered in our common doorway.
“Do you know that man?” I asked, in the guarded tones we were both employing now.
“No,” she replied simply, “but it is quite evident that you do.”