“Of course. Dr. Craig.”
Her soft voice soothed him, as always. How he loved it! He had just a peep of her delicate fingers as she took the page.
Then she was gone again.
Craig crushed out his cigarette in an ash-tray and sat staring at the complicated formula pinned to his drawing board. Of course, it probably meant something—something very important. It might even mean, as Nayland Smith seemed to think, a new era in the troubled history of man.
But why should he care
He could hear her machine tapping . . .
Very soon, her door opened, and Camille came out. She carried a typed page and duplicates. The pencilled note was clipped to them. Craig didn’t look up when she laid them beside the drawing board, and Camille turned to go. At the same moment, she glanced up at the clock.
Nine-fifteen . . .
Could Morris Craig have seen, he would have witnessed an eerie thing.
Camille’s vacant expression became effaced; instantly, magically. She clenched her hands, fixing her eyes upward, upon the clock. For a moment she stood so, as if transfixed, as if listening intently. She symbolized vital awareness.
She relaxed, and, looking down, rested her left hand on the desk beside Craig. She spoke slowly.
“I am sorry—if I have made any mistakes. Please tell me if this is correct.”
Craig, who was not wearing his glasses, glanced over the typed page. He was trying desperately to think of some excuse to detain her.
“There was one word,” the musical voice continued.
Camille raised her hands, and deliberately released her hair so that it swept down, a fiery, a molten torrent, brushing Craig’s cheek as he pretended to read the message.
“Oh! Forgive me!”
She was bending over him when Craig twisted about and looked up into her eyes. Meeting his glance, she straightened and began to rearrange her hair.
He stood up.
“No—don’t! Don’t bother to do that.”
He spoke breathlessly.
Camille, hands still lifted, paused, watching him. They were very close.
“But—”
“Your hair is—so wonderful.” He clasped her wrists to restrain her. “It’s a crime to hide it.”
“I am glad you think so,” she said rather tremulously.
He was holding her hands now. “Camille—would you think me a really fearful cad if I told you you are completely lovely?”
His heart seemed to falter when he saw that tiny curl of Camille’s lip—like the stirring of a rose petal, he thought of it—heralding a smile. It was a new smile, a smile he had never seen before. She raised her lashes and looked into his eyes . . .
When he released her: “Camille,” he whispered, “How
“Morris!”
He kissed her again.
“You darling! I suppose I have been waiting for this moment ever since you first walked into the office.”
“Have you?”
This was a different woman he held in his arms—a woman who had disguised herself; this was the hidden, the secret Camille, seductive, wildly desirable—and his!
“Yes. Did you know?”
“Perhaps I did,” she whispered.
Presently she disengaged herself and stood back, smiling provocatively.
“Camille—”
“Shall I take the message to Mr. Regan?”
Morris Craig inhaled deeply, and turned away. He was delirious with happiness, knew it, yet (such is the scientific mind) resented it. Camille had swept solid earth from beneath his feet. He was in the grip of a power which he couldn’t analyze, a power not reducible to equations, inexpressible in a diagram. He had, perhaps, probed the secret of perpetual motion, exalting himself to a throne not far below the knees of the gods—but he had met a goddess in whose slender hands he was a thing of clay.
“D’you know,” he said, glancing aside at her, “I think it might be a good idea if you did.”
She detached the top copy of the note and walked across to the laboratory steps.
“Will you open the door for me?”
Craig pulled out the bunch of keys and went to join her where she stood—one foot on the first step, her frock defining the lines of her slim body, reflected light touching rich waves of her hair to an incredible glory. Over her shoulder she watched him.
The keys rattled as he dropped the chain . . .
“Morris—please!”
He took the paper from her hand and tore it up.
“Never mind. Work is out of the question, now.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!”
“You adorable little witch, you’re not sorry at all! I thought I was a hard-boiled scientific egg until I met you.”
“I’m afraid,” said Camille, demurely, and her soft voice reminded him again of the notes of a harp, “I have spoiled your plans for the evening.”
“To the devil with plans! This is a night of nights. Let’s follow it through.”
He put his arm around her waist and dragged her from the steps.
“Very well, Morris. Whatever you say.”
“I say we’re young only once.” He pulled her close. “At least, so far as we know. So I say let’s be young together.”
He gave her a kiss which lasted almost too long . . .
“Morris!”
“I could positively eat you alive!”
“But—your work—”
“Work is for slaves. Love is for free men. Where shall we go?”
“Anywhere you like, if you really mean it. But—”
“It doesn’t matter. There are lots of spots. I feel that I want somewhere different, some place where I can get used to the idea that
His keys still hung down on the chain as he had dropped them. He swung the bunch into his hand and crossed toward the steel door. At the foot of the steps, he hesitated. No need to go in. It would be difficult to prevent Regan from drawing inferences. Shrewd fellow, Regan. Craig returned to his desk and called the laboratory.
As if from far away a reply came:
“Regan here.”
Craig cleared his throat guiltily.
“Listen, Regan. I shan’t be staying late tonight after all.” (He felt like a criminal.) “Pushing off. Anything I should attend to before Shaw comes on duty?”
There was a silent interval. Camille was standing behind Craig, clutching her head, staring at him in a dazed way . . .
“Can you hear, Regan? I say, do you want to see me before I leave?”
Then came the halting words. “No . . . Doctor . . . there’s nothing. . . to see you about . . .”
Craig thought the sentence was punctured by a stifled cough.
A moment later he had Camille in his arms again.
