His suspense was destined to be short.  While he was straining his eyes to see what might be going on down the road, a small crowd of people came round the corner of the house.  In their midst walked a woman with a shawl or cape over her head—­a fierce and wilful figure which shook off the hand kind Mrs. Deo laid on her arm, and shrank as the great front door fell open, sending forth a flood of light which, to one less wedded to wild ways and outdoor living, promised a hospitable cheer.

“Georgian’s form!” muttered Ransom involuntarily to himself.  “And Georgian’s face!” he felt obliged to add, as the light fell broadly across her.  “But not Georgian’s ways and not Georgian’s nature,” he impetuously finished as she slipped out of sight.

Then the mystery of the brother came rushing over him and he yielded himself again to the wonder of the situation till he was reawakened to realities by the shuffling of feet on the stairway and the raised tones of Mrs. Deo as she tried to make herself understood by her new and somewhat difficult guest.  A maid followed in their wake, and from some as yet unexplored region below there rose the sound of clattering dishes.

It was a trying moment for him.  He longed for another glimpse of the girl, but feared to betray his own curiosity to the two women who accompanied her.  Should he be forced to allow her to enter her room unseen?  Might he not better run some small risk of detection?  He had escaped discovery before; wasn’t it possible for him to escape it again?  He finally compromised matters by first flinging his door wide open and then retreating to the other end of the room where the shadows appeared heavy enough to hide him.  From this point he cast a look down the hall which was in a direct line from his present standpoint, and was fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of the girl with her face turned in his direction.  Her companions, on the contrary, were standing with their backs to him, one beside the door she had just thrown open, the other at his wife’s door on which she had just given a significant rap.

Such was the picture.

The girl absorbed all his attention.  The shawl—­a gay one with colors in it—­had fallen from her head and was trailing, wet and bedraggled, over an equally bedraggled skirt.  Soused with wet, her hair disheveled, and all her garments awry with the passion of her movements, she yet made his heart stand still, as, with a sullen look at those about her, she rushed into the room prepared for her use and slammed the door behind her with a quick cry of mingled rage and relief.  For with all these drawbacks of manner and appearance she was the living picture of Georgian; so like her, indeed, that he could well understand now the shock which his darling received when, in the unconsciousness of possessing a living sister, she had encountered in street or store, or wherever they had first met, this living reproduction of herself.