She had had a letter from him, and a message by telephone; thus her anxiety had been stilled. And she was very grateful—so grateful that her voice trembled as she held out her hands to him.
"How shall I ever thank you?" she said.
He took her hands in his, and stood looking down at her.
He did not speak at once, yet in those fleeting moments Mary had a strange sense of a question asked and answered. It was as if he were calling upon her for something she was not ready to give—as if he were drawing from her some subconscious admission, swaying her by a force that was compelling, to reveal herself to him.
And, as she thought these things, he saw a new look in her eyes, and her breath quickened.
He dropped her hands.
"Don't thank me," he said. "Ask me again to do something for you. That shall be my reward."
CHAPTER X
In Which a Scarlet Flower Blooms in the Garden; and in Which a Light Flares Later in the Tower.