“One never knows,” he said, and held out his hand. She placed her hand in his, and then he performed an act so out of tune with Evan Pell, pedant and egoist, that Carmel gasped. He lifted her hand to his lips. The gesture was not artificial, not funny. There was a grave dignity, a sincerity in the act which made it seem quite the right thing to have done. “Good-by,” he said. “You are very lovely.... Please make haste....”
He helped her into the car, and she turned. “Mr. Pell——” she said, but he was gone, had returned to the office and was invisible.
“Ready, miss?” the driver asked.
“You know where you are to go?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Whose car is this?”
“Mr. Whitefield’s,” said the driver, as he threw in his gear and the machine moved up the street.
Carmel’s mind was not on the car, nor on its destination, nor upon her errand. It was upon Bartholomew Pell.... Could she have seen him seated before his table, could she have read his thoughts, have comprehended the expression of happiness upon his face, she would have thought even more urgently of him.... For he was saying to himself: “Thank God she’s out of it. She’s safe. I’ve done that much, anyhow.”
He drew the mysterious note from his pocket and studied it attentively. “She would have gone,” he said, “so I shall go.... Doubtless it is a trap of some sort—but it may not be.... And she is safe—she is safe.”