It was obviously some
noise in the house for which he was waiting.
Minute after minute passed, and still nothing. There was not even the
whisper of a wind-stirred drapery. He was about to rise when, suddenly,
with no other noise than that of the sharp click of the switch, the
electric lights in the room blazed up brilliantly. The glare dazzled Mr.
Grimm with its blinding flood, but he didn't move. Then softly, almost
in a whisper:
"Good evening, Mr. Grimm."
It was a woman's voice, pleasant, unsurprised, perfectly modulated. Mr.
Grimm certainly did not expect it now, but he knew it instantly--there
was not another quite like it in the wide, wide world--and though he was
still blinking a little, he came to his feet courteously.
"Good morning, Miss Thorne," he corrected gravely.
Now his vision was clearing, and he saw her, a graceful figure,
silhouetted against the rich green of the wall draperies. Her lips were
curled the least bit, as if she might have been smiling, and her
wonderful eyes reflected a glint of--of--was it amusement? The folds of
her evening dress fell away from her, and one bare, white arm was
extended, as her hand still rested on the switch.
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