“You will please take me to the house,” she repeated.
I started up the driveway, and once or twice it seemed to me she was about to speak. But she did not, and at the steps I got down and rang the bell. It was a matter of five minutes before there was response. Then there came the faint sound of footsteps from within, and the door was opened. A tall man, in dressing gown, candle in hand, sleep in his eyes, replied to my inquiry. Yes, this was Mr. Stoughton Page’s house, and he was Mr. Page. What did I want?
Before I could explain, a voice spoke at my elbow, and Margery stepped into the flickering circle of light. “Only to ask you for shelter,” she said.
The man in the dressing gown stared at her, then recognition sprang into his face, and he put down the candle hastily. “Margery Gans!” he cried.
“None other,” she answered. “Margery Gans, at your service, or, rather, at your door, and, with her, Mr. Page Winslow, to whom she owes her presence here and an evening of experiences besides. We are just from the dance at the club, at which, sir, you failed me. Is it a welcome, or must we go further?”
He held the door open and began to explain. Presently he realized that I was standing by, and urged me to come in. But I said no, I must return to the club, and all the while I looked at Margery, hoping for some little sign.
But she kept her face resolutely upon her host, and said nothing. Then, as I turned to go, she laid a hand upon his arm. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “I had almost forgotten my trunk! It is in the car. Could you find some one to bring it in?”
“Of course,” he said, and turned back into the house. She threw a swift look over her shoulder, raised her veil, and stepped to the doorway. She held out both her hands.
I took them in mine. What I did concerned only us two. “Good-by, Margery,” I said at last.
“No, no, not really good-by,” she answered. “Just good-by for a little while——” She faltered.