It seemed like a long-drawn sigh fluttering through the room, a gasp of
relief--and then the blood was pounding madly at his temples, and he was
back in the room again, the door closed once more behind him.
"Oh, Jimmie--why didn't you speak? I had to be sure that it was you."
It was her voice! HERS! The Tocsin! HERE! She was here--here in his
house!
"You!" he cried. "You--here!" He was pressing the electric-light switch
frantically, again and again.
Her voice came out of the darkness from across the room:
"Why are you doing that, Jimmie? You know already that I have turned off
the lights."
"At the sockets--of course!" He laughed out the words almost
hysterically. "Your face--I have never seen your face, you know." He was
moving quickly toward the reading lamp on his desk.
There was a quick, hurried swish of garments, and she was blocking his
way.
"No," she said, in a low voice; "you must not light that lamp."
He laughed again, shortly, fiercely now. She was close to him, his hands
reached out for her, touched her, and thrilling at the touch, swept her
toward him.
"Jimmie--Jimmie--are you mad!" she breathed.
Mad! Yes--he was mad with the wildest, most passionate exhilaration he
had ever known. He found his voice with an effort.
"These months and years that I have tried until my soul was sick to find
you!" he cried out.
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