We both sprang forward together, but Bruce got there first and caught her by the shoulders. In a flash she had clutched him, winding her arms round his waist, and burying her face in his coat with a little cry, half-way between a laugh and a sob.
For a moment Bruce was too dumbfounded to resist. Then, with frantic energy, he made a vain attempt to disentangle himself from her embrace.
"Here, let me go!" he stammered. "What are you doing? What's the matter? Pull her off, Bridges—pull her off!"
I hastened to his assistance, feeling as if I was taking part in some exceptionally spirited nightmare.
To and fro we swayed, pulling, struggling, and banging against the table. At last, with a mighty heave, I managed to unfasten one of her hands, and, ducking down, Bruce tore himself free.
"She's mad!" he gasped. "Shove her outside, and lock the door, quick!"
"Well, give us a hand, then!" I panted, for the woman was twisting and writhing in a manner that made it almost impossible to hold her.
Watching his opportunity, Bruce leaped in and seized her disengaged wrist. She fought furiously but together we half pushed, half carried her into the passage, and then, wrenching ourselves loose, leaped back into the room and slammed and locked the door.
I sank down on the sofa and gazed at Bruce, who leaned against a table, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief.
Presently he found his voice.