As he spoke, the car flashed past, spun round the corner and was out of sight instantly.
“A man spoke to me—in that car,” she said breathlessly.
The stolid constable gazed vacantly at the place where the car had been.
“He didn’t have lights,” he said stupidly. “I ought to have taken his number. Did he insult you, miss?”
She shook her head, for she was already ashamed of her fears.
“I’m nervy, officer,” she said with a smile. “I don’t think I will go any farther.”
She turned back and hurried to her lodgings. There were disadvantages in starring—even on Jack Knebworth’s modest lot. It was nervous work, she thought.
She went to sleep that night and dreamt that the man in the car was Michael Brixan and he wanted her to come in to tea.
It was past midnight when Michael rang up Jack Knebworth with the news.
“Foss!” he gasped. “Good God! You don’t mean that, Brixan? Shall I come round and see you?”