Mystery of the Inn by the Shore

Clifford King sat up in bed when the door had closed with a flicker of dim light and a rush of cool air, shaking from head to foot with excitement and horror which made him cold and sick.

Was she a thief, then, a common thief, this blue-eyed, pink-cheeked girl who had infatuated him the evening before? This Nell of the soft voice and the bright hair, to whose pretty talk he had listened with delight, whom he had been ready to worship for her gentleness, her affectionate kindness for her rough old uncle? No, it was impossible. He had been dreaming. He would wake presently to find that the experiences of the last few minutes had been a nightmare only.