Again she tried to concentrate—haul her thoughts into line. They came sluggishly.
Married . . . she was married . . . married to Bob—Bob Minter, one of her father’s grooms. She had done it because she loved him. She had married him in London that morning, and——That morning? Was it possible that it was only that morning? Was it only that morning that the registrar had bowed and . . .
Her thoughts began to slip away. She let them go.
She stared at her wedding-ring . . . touched—plucked at it desperately.
The hideous queries and answers leapt like rams possessed.
“Why? God knows. . . . How can I? I must. . . . What? Nothing.”
For an instant panic fear looked out of her steady grey eyes.
Then—
“All serene, kid. I’ve got the goods,” panted Bob. He turned to a shambling porter, thrusting a truck. “Say, mate, where d’you keep your taxis?”
“Not ’ere,” said the porter. “Might get a keb.”