“Take it easy and have a good cry. Everything’s all right now. You’ll feel better in a minute,” he soothed.
“What a crybaby you must think me,” she said presently, in a limp voice. “Do you happen to have a handkerchief, Bill?”
“You bet. Here’s one—and it’s clean, too.”
Dorothy dried her eyes and blew her nose rather violently.
“Thanks—I do feel much better now. Do you mind turning on the light again? I must be a sight. There—hold it so I can see in my compact.”
Bill began to laugh as her deft fingers worked with powder, rouge and lipstick.
“What’s the joke?” she asked, then answered her own question. “Oh, I know! You think girls do nothing but prink. Well, I don’t care—it’s horrid to look messy. Is there such a thing as a comb in your pocket, Bill? I have lost mine.”
“Sorry,” he grinned, “but I got my permanent last week. I don’t bother to carry one any more.”
“Don’t be silly!” she began, then stopped short. “We’ve got to get out of here,” she said and snapped her compact shut. “They are coming after me in a car. Donovan or Peters, I forget which, said so.”
“Who are Donovan and Peters—and where are they going to take you?”