growled. Almost immediately a hand fumbled with the latch, and as the door swung open, a man staggered blindly into the room. He was hatless, wet to the skin, and shivering with cold, and before Marcia could reach his side, he lurched forward and fell at her feet. "Quick, Sylvia, close the door and heat some broth. The poor fellow is exhausted. He's chilled to the bone." [56] [56] "Who is it?" "No one I know—a stranger. Bring that pillow and help me to slip it under his head. We'll let him rest where he is a moment." Her fingers moved to the bronzed wrist. "He's all right," she whispered. "Just cold and worn out. He'll be himself presently." She swept the matted hair, lightly sprinkled with grey, from the man's forehead and wiped his face. An interesting face it was—intelligent and highbred, with well-cut features and a firm, determined chin. A sweater of blue wool, a blue serge suit, socks of tan and sport shoes to match them clung to the tall, slender figure, and on the hand lying across it sparkled a diamond sunk in a band of wrought gold. It was not the hand of a fisherman, tanned though it was; nor yet that of a sailor. There could be no doubt about that. Rather, it belonged to a scholar, a writer, a painter, or possibly to a physician, for it was strong as well as beautifully formed. Sylvia bent to adjust the pillow, and her eyes and Marcia's met. Who was this man? Whence came he? What disaster had laid him here helpless before them?
Prev.
Back
Top