"Some one coming upstairs," he whispered. "It's a woman, and she's coming slowly. Now she's stopped. Now she's coming on again."
I rose from my chair and tiptoed across the room.
"Can it be Joyce?" I asked, sinking my own voice to a whisper.
"She's going on to the next floor," he answered with a shake of the head; and then with sudden excitement, "Now she's coming back."
"She mustn't ring the bell," I cried, running out into the hall.
"It's all right, there's nobody here but ourselves," he called out as I opened the door and ran out onto the landing.
Ten feet in front of me, leaning back against the banisters, stood Joyce Davenant. One hand covered her eyes and the other was pressed to her heart. She was trembling with fever and panting with the exertion of climbing four flights of stairs. A long fur coat stretched down to bare feet thrust into slippers, her head was covered by a shawl, though the hair fell loosely inside her coat. At the neck I could see the frilled collar of a nightdress.
"Joyce!" I exclaimed.
She uncovered her face and showed eyes preternaturally bright, and white cheeks lit by a single spot of brilliant colour.
"I said I'd come when there was a warrant out," she panted with game, gallant attempt at a smile. Then I caught her in my arms as she fell forward, and carried her as gently as I could inside the flat.