Meanwhile, Rogers had battled his way across the open space that separated the house from the workshop. It was already late and only the light of a single window guided him. In spite of the storm, he stood for an instant looking up at it, as if for him it bore some significance, some message. Then, as he stood there, regardless of the pelting rain, the hall door opened, letting a flood of soft light pour out into the darkness.
“Oscar—is that you?”
He came forward instantly.
“It is I—Rogers,” he said. “I'm sorry if I startled you, Mrs. Delisle. I've just come over from the workshop and was enjoying a taste of the storm. Do you want me to take any message across?”
“No. I saw some one coming and thought it was my husband. But you must come in. You're wet through.”
She stood aside to let him pass, but as he made, awkwardly enough, for the stairs that led to his own room, she held out an impulsive hand.
“Mr. Rogers—I want to speak with you. There's a fire in my boudoir. If you could spare me a few moments”
She spoke jerkily, a little breathlessly, as if with an almost physical effort, and he turned and looked at her, his head as usual a little bent, so that the lower half of his face was in shadow. Then with an abrupt laugh he held out his grimy hands.
“I'm not a fit occupant for a lady's boudoir,” he said, “nor fit company for a lady.”
“May I not be judge of that?”
He shrugged his bent shoulders.
“If you wish to speak to me, I am at your service.”
She led the way across the hall, her soft white dress trailing over the carpets and lending her slight figure a pathetic dignity. The man behind her straightened for an instant as if in defiance of some violent emotion—then followed in silence. But as he crossed the threshold of the small, quietly lit room, he hesitated. She turned and looked back at him with a faint smile.
“Is it not what you expected?”
“It's a man's room!”
“It's my husband's room.”
He made no answer. His eyes traveled from one object to another—from the old writing table to the sword hanging above the mantelshelf, and finally to the well-worn armchair drawn up to the fireside.
“You have surrounded yourself with relics, Mrs. Delisle,” he said, with harsh amusement. “A truly feminine piece of unwisdom!”
“Do only women remember?” she returned, smiling wistfully.
“No—a man remembers, too—sometimes.”
He had gone over to the fireside and stood there, his head resting upon his hand, his eyes on the fire. She glanced at him for an instant, as if troubled by some vague recollection, then turned away, busying herself with the silver coffee urn. The rise and fall of the storm as it beat against the windows drowned the sound of her quiet movements, and when he found her standing beside him, he started violently.
“You will drink this, won't you? It will do you good. You look so ill to-night, Mr. Rogers.”
“There's nothing the matter.” He took the cup from her hands without lifting his eyes to her face. “Since my accident I have not been strong.”
“Your accident? I have never known what it was. Won't you tell me?”
He laughed in his short, restrained way.
“It was nothing very glorious. I had had trouble in England and went out to China to make a fresh start. I got a post as first engineer on board a leaky old tramp, and there was a mutiny among the coolies and I was rather knocked about. That's all.”
“All! It must have been very terrible.”
“It didn't make me more beautiful—as you may guess.”
She ignored the sneer in his low voice, and her eyes rested pityingly on the scarred hand upon the mantelshelf.
“Who cared for you?”
“No one. I mended as best I could. Don't let's talk about it.”
“And then—you came to England?”
“Yes. It didn't seem likely that any one would recognize me. I felt I could risk it. I'm a fairly expert hand with machinery and I got a place with an engineering firm. It was through them Captain Delisle heard of me. That is my whole history, Mrs. Delisle.”
His tone was still hard and almost repellent, and a slow flush crept into her pale cheeks. Yet she remained beside him, patient almost to obstinacy.
“It was a strange chance that brought you here, Mr. Rogers.”
“Strange? Perhaps. Why do you find it so?”
“I don't know—another man might have acted differently. I needed some one I could trust.”
“You trust me?” he questioned again, scarcely above his breath.