I did open them after a while, and finally I made out that I was laying
on the floor in the tent. The lights were on, and I had a cold and damp
feeling, and something wet was trickling down my neck.
I seemed to be alone, but in a second somebody came into the tent, and I
saw it was Mr. Harbison, and that he had a double handful of half-melted
snow. He looked frantic and determined, and only my sitting up quickly
prevented my getting another snow bath. My neck felt queer and stiff,
and I was very dizzy. When he saw that I was conscious he dropped the
snow and stood looking down at me.
"Do you know," he said grimly, "that I very nearly choked you to death a
little while ago?"
"It wouldn't surprise me to be told so," I said. "Do I know too much, or
what is it, Mr. Harbison?" I felt terribly ill, but I would not let him
see it. "It is queer, isn't it--how we always select the roof for our
little--differences?" He seemed to relax somewhat at my gibe.
"I didn't know it was you," he explained shortly. "I was waiting
for--some one, and in the hat you wore and the coat, I mistook you.
That's all. Can you stand?"
"No," I retorted. I could, but his summary manner displeased me. The
sequel, however, was rather amazing, for he stooped suddenly and picked
me up, and the next instant we were out in the storm together. At the
door he stooped and felt for the knob.
"Turn it," he commanded. "I can't reach it."
"I'll do nothing of the kind," I said shrewishly. "Let me down; I can
walk perfectly well."
He hesitated. Then he slid me slowly to my feet, but he did not open
the door at once. "Are you afraid to let me carry you down those stairs,
after--Tuesday night?" he asked, very low. "You still think I did that?"
I had never been less sure of it than at that moment, but an imp of
perversity made me retort, "Yes."
He hardly seemed to hear me. He stood looking down at me as I leaned
against the door frame.
"Good Lord!" he groaned. "To think that I might have killed you!" And
then--he stooped and suddenly kissed me.
The next moment the door was open, and he was leading me down into the
house. At the foot of the staircase he paused, still holding my hand,
and faced me in the darkness.
"I'm not sorry," he said steadily. "I suppose I ought to be, but I'm
not. Only--I want you to know that I was not guilty--before. I didn't
intend to now. I am--almost as much surprised as you are."