He seized one of her gloved hands, drew her into the narrow hall, and closed the door.
"Jim started for one of his camps—early this morning—before we heard," she said. "So I have come to—to see Mr. Rayton. Is—he very—ill?"
"Ill!" repeated Mr. Banks cheerfully. "My dear young lady, he is fit as a fiddle. We broke up his cold yesterday, you know, and the scratch on his shoulder is nothing. Please come in here. I'll just touch a match to the fire."
"Where is Mr. Rayton?" she asked, as he stooped to light the fire in the sitting-room stove.
"Oh, he's at home. I'll tell him you are here."
"I'm sure he is in bed."
"Well, so he is. It is the safest place to keep him, you know, for he is always getting into trouble."
"I—I want to see him—to speak to him," she whispered.
"Then wait a minute, please. I'll run upstairs and try to make him look pretty," said Mr. Banks.
When Miss Harley entered Rayton's bedroom, she found the invalid sitting up against a stack of pillows, smiling cheerfully, slightly flushed, his shoulders draped with a scarlet blanket. He extended his hand. She drew off her gloves, and took it firmly. Neither spoke for fully half a minute. Mr. Banks left the room, light on his feet as a prowling cat.