“Accident?” Her eyes widened with sudden fear.
“No—no; it’s all right. He’s just drunk a little too much, and I thought he’d better go home.”
“Oh, surely—right away. Where is he?”
“Well, we’ve got him out in my car.”
“Let’s go—let’s go then; let’s go quickly. I’ll get my wraps.” She started for the dressing-room.
“Good-night,” Michael’s voice called after her but she did not turn her head.
Doc French led her to the motor car. Martin lay huddled in the back, insensate, a long string of saliva trailing from his under lip. A strange man supported him.
A trembling, whispered exclamation escaped Jeannette. Her companion kept on reassuring her.
“There’s nothing—nothing the matter,” he repeated. “He’s had too much to drink, that’s all.... Get in the front seat with me and I’ll drive you straight home and we’ll put him to bed.”
They bumped over the car-tracks in Washington Street and the dusty uneven ground in front of the station. The dawn was coming up angry and on fire in the east.