“You frightened me so,” she gasped. “When—when did you come back?”
“Just now,” I answered. “I’m terribly sorry if I frightened you. But I was so surprised to see you, you know. And what in the world has become of my man?”
She hesitated and glanced around the room wildly for an instant as though searching for a chance to escape.
“I—I don’t know. I found the front door was open and I came in to find you. But there was no one here at all.”
“I see,” I answered gently. “Now won’t you sit down and tell me what I can do for you? Surely we’re too old friends for you to be so frightened now?” I paused. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Oh, would you?” She raised a trembling hand to her mouth and her eyes searched my face. “It’s not the fright you gave me,” she ventured at last, in a low tone, “it’s the—way you found me.”
As I stepped to the decanter and poured her out a stiffish drink of whisky I reflected that this was coming to the point with a vengeance. The woman certainly had nerve and wits, for all her fright. I wondered what sort of a tale she could possibly give me. But she was equal to the occasion.
“Well, what about the way I found you?” I smiled, as I handed her the drink.
She drained the whisky at a gulp, and some of the color came back to her face. I took her arm and helped her to a chair, and although she hesitated for an instant and drew back, she sank into it finally and seemed grateful. The interview promised to be interesting.
“You see,” she answered, “it’s an old story, really, and one of which I am terribly ashamed. That is why you startled me so.”