“Good night, Dot,” he said, and kissed the slight fingers.
These were very cold.
Then he opened her door, and she passed in. . . .
Pembury’s rooms were in Brook Street. Thither he drove mechanically, gazing out of the windscreen with a strained, fixed stare.
As he was flying up Park Lane, a taxi shot out of South Street across his path. . . .
Instinctively, he clapped on the brakes, and the Rolls skidded to glory.
Two buses were coming. He could see them.
By a violent effort he straightened the great car up.
Then she skidded again—the opposite way.
He accelerated—tried to get through. . . .