As this wish was finding expression on the lips of the little sick man, Joseph Frowenfeld was making room on a narrow doorstep for the outward opening of a pair of small batten doors, upon which he had knocked with the vigorous haste of a man in the rain.  As they parted, he hurriedly helped them open, darted within, heedless of the odd black shape which shuffled out of his way, wheeled and clapped them shut again, swung down the bar and then turned, and with the good-natured face that properly goes with a ducking, looked to see where he was.

One object—­around which everything else instantly became nothing—­set his gaze.  On the high bed, whose hangings of blue we have already described, silently regarding the intruder with a pair of eyes that sent an icy thrill through him and fastened him where he stood, lay Palmyre Philosophe.  Her dress was a long, snowy morning-gown, wound loosely about at the waist with a cord and tassel of scarlet silk; a bright-colored woollen shawl covered her from the waist down, and a necklace of red coral heightened to its utmost her untamable beauty.

An instantaneous indignation against Doctor Keene set the face of the speechless apothecary on fire, and this, being as instantaneously comprehended by the philosophe, was the best of introductions.  Yet her gaze did not change.

The Congo negress broke the spell with a bristling protest, all in African b’s and k’s, but hushed and drew off at a single word of command from her mistress.

In Frowenfeld’s mind an angry determination was taking shape, to be neither trifled with nor contemned.  And this again the quadroon discerned, before he was himself aware of it.

“Doctor Keene”—­he began, but stopped, so uncomfortable were her eyes.

She did not stir or reply.

Then he bethought him with a start, and took off his dripping hat.

At this a perceptible sparkle of imperious approval shot along her glance; it gave the apothecary speech.

“The doctor is sick, and he asked me to dress your wound.”

She made the slightest discernible motion of the head, remained for a moment silent, and then, still with the same eye, motioned her hand toward a chair near a comfortable fire.

He sat down.  It would be well to dry himself.  He drew near the hearth and let his gaze fall into the fire.  When he presently lifted his eyes and looked full upon the woman with a steady, candid glance, she was regarding him with apparent coldness, but with secret diligence and scrutiny, and a yet more inward and secret surprise and admiration.  Hard rubbing was bringing out the grain of the apothecary.  But she presently suppressed the feeling.  She hated men.

But Frowenfeld, even while his eyes met hers, could not resent her hostility.  This monument of the shame of two races—­this poisonous blossom of crime growing out of crime—­this final, unanswerable white man’s accuser—­this would-be murderess—­what ranks and companies would have to stand up in the Great Day with her and answer as accessory before the fact!  He looked again into the fire.