Mr. Murphy was a married man. He produced a penknife eloquently, and suggested a couple of slashes an' a taste of twine would make a skhirt while ye'd be waitin'.
Gheena, still bewildered, stood in meek silence, her blanket reft from her to be rent in twain. The skirt manufactured by Murphy would not have done for Ascot, but it complied with decency. Very quietly the girl went out into the still, dim night, looking back once at the polite lieutenant lying in stupor on the floor. She was not at all sure that he would not vanish.
Someone walking feebly was helped out by two coastguards. Gheena did not turn to look; she kept her head down.
"And for Heaven's sake remember you're not driving Darby's tin-kettle twelve-power," said a weak but unashamed voice, "and go slow. I wanted them to get a donkey cart for me."
Gheena said "Where to?" as she slipped the clutch—was she in this nightmare to drive to the county gaol twelve miles away? The Professor replied, "Why, Mrs. Maloney's, of course!" rather peevishly. He was watching the nearness of the banks in the narrow lane and the pace at which their dark shapes were sliding by.
But Gheena drove skilfully; she slid round the corner, and the car seemed to leap forward at the road.
"Steady; there is not much room," said the Professor, "and Murphy was on the dickey."
"Begonnes, I am here still, sir," said Murphy cheerlessly, "though that whip around near spilt me."
The gleam of dawn was in the east, a pinky yellow glow chasing grey night away.
They slipped past sleeping Castle Freyne and into the village, with the little dark houses clinging to the edge of the cliff; dun shapes growing just visible. They pulled up with complete disregard for Stafford's tyres, and he was helped out; the hall door of his small house stood open, ready for his return at any time. Gheena's lips tightened as she saw it. She had now to walk home before any light came. She stood uncertain, waiting.