The voice was low-pitched; and, further, it struck me as being disguised.
“May I not know the name of my good Samaritan?” I inquired.
“The name is entirely unnecessary,” the voice responded. “From your card-case I see that your name is Heaton, and that you live in Essex Street, Strand.”
“Yes,” I answered.
“How long have you been blind?” the voice inquired, hoarse and deep. I knew that it was disguised by certain of the syllables being pronounced differently in various words.
“For a year or more,” I answered.
“And does your head still pain you very much?” inquired the voice, while at the same moment I felt a cool hand placed upon my throbbing brow.
In an instant I seized it by the wrist. The hand tried to wrench itself free, but not before I had felt the slimness of the fingers, the rings upon them, and the softness of the palm.
It was a woman’s. She had cleverly disguised her voice to cause me to believe that it was a man’s. I placed my right hand upon her arm and felt it bare. Upon her wrist was a curious bracelet, thin but strangely pliable, evidently made of some ingeniously worked and twisted wire.
The arm was bare; her skirts were of silk. My nurse was evidently in an evening toilette.