Ere the woman could speak the girl rushed forward, and staring straight into the face of the man, cried:
“Why! It’s—it’s actually Mr Porter!”
The man laughed rather uneasily, though he well concealed his chagrin. He had believed that she was blind.
“I fear you have mistaken me for somebody else,” he said. Then, turning to the woman, he remarked: “This is Miss Grayson, I suppose?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Ah! Then she imagines me to be somebody named Porter—eh?” he remarked in a tone of pity.
“I imagine nothing,” declared the girl vehemently. “I used to, but I am now growing much better, and I begin to recollect. I recognise you as Mr Arthur Porter, whom I last saw at Willowden, near Welwyn. And you know it is the truth.”
The man shrugged his shoulders, and turning to Madame Nicole said in French:
“I have heard that mademoiselle is suffering from—well, from hallucinations.”
“Yes, monsieur, she does. For days she will scarcely speak. Her memory comes and goes quite suddenly. And she has to-day recovered her sight.”