She flung open a bureau drawer and crammed a further article or two down in her still open chatelaine bag.
Then she opened the outer door for the boy who had come for the bags. Then she looked at her watch again.
"You must not come back," she said to me. "They may be here any time."
"Who may?" I asked.
"The police," she answered as she closed the door.
She did not speak again until we were at the side of the taxicab.
"To the Holland American Wharf," she said.
Nor did she speak all the while we purred and hummed and dodged our way across the city. She did not move until we jolted aboard the ferry-boat, and the clanging of the landing-float's pawl-and-rachet told us we were no longer on that shrill and narrow island where the fever of life burns to the edge of its three laving rivers. It was then and only then that I noticed the convulsive shaking of her shoulders.
"What is it?" I asked, helplessly, oppressed by the worlds that seemed to stand between us.
"It's nothing," she said, with her teeth against her lip. But the next minute she was crying as forlornly and openly as a child.