Even as he stood there, not daring to move, he felt that he was not alone. Another figure, a woman’s, stood in the doorway. He could see her light dress, the whiteness of her neck; and he found himself breathless, suffocated by the sudden dénouement to his dream.
“Evelyn!” he whispered, moving at last.
There was a quick recoil. For a moment it seemed to Calderon that everything was lost, and that he was alone. Then the woman in the doorway stood quite still, breathing quickly, half hidden from him by the doorpost, her face wholly invisible in the murk of the night.
“I didn’t see anybody,” she said unsteadily. “Who are you?” It seemed an unfamiliar voice, rather strangled and more than a little scared.
“Ah! You’re not Evelyn!” Calderon cried. Still he could not see her: only the whiteness glimmered before him. “I’m— My name’s Calderon. I beg your pardon. I thought it was my wife.”
“Calderon!” said the voice; and it seemed to him that it was suddenly filled with a new warmth, as of gayety. Then: “How funny!” said the unknown. He seemed to see her head quickly lowered and averted. Was she smiling? Who could have told, in that foglike darkness? It was as much as he could do to see that she was still before him. But funny? What did that mean?
“Funny?” he exclaimed eagerly. “Is—” He pulled himself up. Here was a complication! If he asked any question, might he not make a new difficulty? He could not ask whether Evelyn was here. He could guess how quickly a story would run through a mischievous party of tourists, unrestrained by any real understanding of the situation, and bent upon canvassing among themselves, merely to beguile gaps in a mealtime conversation, the history of an unhappy marriage. He could not expose Evelyn to such a company. So he went no further with his speech.
“Perhaps you’ve heard—” said the voice. “Perhaps you’ve heard of Alice Bradshaw.” She was quite recovered from her shock, and was ready, it appeared to Calderon, to hold him flirtatiously in the doorway. “I’ve known Evelyn for some time—two years.”
“I’ve got an idea—” hesitated Calderon, racking his brains and lying. It was getting worse and worse! How could he go on without showing how little he knew about Evelyn’s recent movements? He frowned, and smiled nervously on the darkness. He was rather glad of the darkness. “I—it’s possible—”
“But not probable!” said the laughing voice. “Don’t pretend to remember me, if you don’t!”