It was unmistakably Olivia's voice that replied to him.
"Here!" she cried clearly, and St. George followed the sound and
dashed through the long open window of the room next that in which
he had first seen her that night.
"Here," she repeated, "but be careful. Some one is in this room."
"Don't be afraid," he cried cheerily into the dark. "It's all
right," which is exactly what he would have said if there had been
about dragons and real shades from Sidon.
The room was now in darkness, and in the dim light cast by the high
moon he could at first discern nothing. He heard a silken rustling
and the tap of slippered feet. The next instant the apartment was
quick with light, and in the curtained entrance to an inner room,
Olivia, in a brown dressing-gown, her hair vaguely bright about her
flushed face, stood confronting him.
Between them, his thin hand thrown up, palm outward, to protect his
eyes from the sudden light, was the old man whom St. George had last
seen by the shrine on the terrace.
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