She looked at him curiously for a moment without replying, then suddenly she said: "Yes, sir," and stepped back from the door.
We followed her into the hall, laying our hats and sticks on the table inside. Bruce's hands were shaking like leaves.
Without looking at us the girl led the way down the passage and opened a door on the left-hand side.
"Will you please come in here, sir?" she said gently.
Bruce, who was about two paces ahead of me, stepped in first. In a flash the girl had followed him, slamming the door in my face with a bang that echoed through the flat.
I pulled up short, and as I did so there came a stifled cry from Bruce:
"Help, help, Bridges, help!"
Flinging open the door again, I rushed in. As far as I could see, Bruce and the housemaid were engaged in a rather strenuous waltz. They were swaying down the room wreathed in each other's arms, splendidly regardless of the furniture. Even as I entered, they fetched up against the end of the sofa, and collapsed into a tangled heap.
At that instant something heavy struck me violently in the back and sent me reeling against the wall. A big woman in a print dress, her arms covered with flour, and a rolling-pin in her hand, brushed violently past me. In two strides she reached the sofa, and, seizing hold of the dark girl, began to drag her away from Bruce. If the latter's collar had not given way he would certainly have been choked. As it was, the stud broke just in the nick of time.
The two women reached the floor together with a loud thud, the rolling-pin clattering away across the room. Next moment, collarless and dishevelled, Bruce was leaping for the door.