She leaned forward and gazed at me in blank amazement. But what she
was able to see of my face must have convinced her that I spoke the
truth. "_Not Mr. Page?_" she echoed, faintly, and shrank from me.
"No," I said; "my name is Winslow. And I am not married to Edith, or
to anyone else. Mr. Stoughton Page, so far as I know, is at home and
has been all evening."
I waited for her to speak, but she sat very still, her hands dropped
in her lap, her head turned from me, and I thought that I knew a
little of what she was thinking, and every second, which passed made
it harder for me to have her think this.
"Let me tell you something," I said at last. "It was a mistake, and it
was all my fault. I did not know who you were when I first saw you. I
only thought of taking you quickly to the club and leaving you there
before you should find out that I was not the person I let you think I
was. But on the way to the club I--I--it seemed to me as if I must
have known you all my life. And then--I saw Mrs. Mason, and she has
been my friend for so long, and--everything helped me. So, when no one
came to take you home, I could not bear to give you up that way and
maybe never see you again. And I did--what I did. And--that is all."
She had not moved while I spoke and her face was denied me. But now
she looked up. The veil hid her eyes; I could only guess at what was
in her mind.
"You let me call you 'Mr. Page'?" she said, after a moment.
"Page is my first name," I answered.
She gave a little gasp. Somehow, I felt that my case was not so nearly
hopeless. "And Mrs. Mason--did she--was she also helping to deceive
me?" she asked.
"She thought it was Mr. Stoughton Page who brought you to the club.
She never knew, until we were leaving, that you did not know who I
was. Oh, it was all my fault, all my fault, I tell you!" I finished,
as she regarded me in silence. "I let you think everything you did--I
never tried to help you out, after the first, because I couldn't. I
loved you, Margery."
"You took a strange way to prove it," she returned.
Her head was thrown back, her gloved hands pressed together. "Oh! oh!
I hate you! It was contemptible! To take advantage of my trust! To lie
to me! How could you do it?"
I turned away miserable, bitter with myself. And all the while I
worked on the valve, stretching the spring so it would do its work and
replacing the part, she said nothing. Even when I had started the
engine and found it to work smoothly and climbed back in the car, she
was silent. But she drew away from me with a movement which was
unmistakable.
The east had begun to lighten long since, and there was a white streak
along the horizon, streaked with the clearest of amber and rose, as we
came to a crossroad, a mile on, and I got a glimpse of a signpost. If
its information was correct, I had made the turns in the road aright,
and we were within half a mile of our destination. A minute later we
topped a slope, and I marked down a large, stone house which answered
the description I had from the club stableman. It was approached by a
driveway bordered with trees and shrubbery.
I brought the car to a stop at the gates. "I believe this is Mr.
Page's place," I said.
"Yes," she said. It was the first word she had spoken since she knew
who I was.
"And before we go in," I went on, "I thought you might wish to tell me
who I am to be."
"I have nothing to do with that," she answered. "Please take me to the
house."
"But," I insisted, "they will probably ask questions. If they do not,
they will wonder. And I can hardly be a stranger to you--under the
circumstances."
"You will please take me to the house," she repeated.
I started up the driveway, and once or twice it seemed to me she was
about to speak. But she did not, and at the steps I got down and rang
the bell. It was a matter of five minutes before there was response.
Then there came the faint sound of footsteps from within, and the door
was opened. A tall man, in dressing gown, candle in hand, sleep in his
eyes, replied to my inquiry. Yes, this was Mr. Stoughton Page's house,
and he was Mr. Page. What did I want?
Before I could explain, a voice spoke at my elbow, and Margery stepped
into the flickering circle of light. "Only to ask you for shelter,"
she said.
The man in the dressing gown stared at her, then recognition sprang
into his face, and he put down the candle hastily. "Margery Gans!" he
cried.
"None other," she answered. "Margery Gans, at your service, or,
rather, at your door, and, with her, Mr. Page Winslow, to whom she
owes her presence here and an evening of experiences besides. We are
just from the dance at the club, at which, sir, you failed me. Is it a
welcome, or must we go further?"
He held the door open and began to explain. Presently he realized that
I was standing by, and urged me to come in. But I said no, I must
return to the club, and all the while I looked at Margery, hoping for
some little sign.
But she kept her face resolutely upon her host, and said nothing.
Then, as I turned to go, she laid a hand upon his arm. "Oh!" she
exclaimed, "I had almost forgotten my trunk! It is in the car. Could
you find some one to bring it in?"
"Of course," he said, and turned back into the house. She threw a
swift look over her shoulder, raised her veil, and stepped to the
doorway. She held out both her hands.
I took them in mine. What I did concerned only us two. "Good-by,
Margery," I said at last.
"No, no, not really good-by," she answered. "Just good-by for a little
while----" She faltered.
"Page," I prompted.
"My 'Mr. Page,'" she repeated, softly, and, at the sound of returning
footsteps, slipped from me into the dimness of the hall, and was gone.