A woebegone Joan was whimpering softly, tears running down her face, her hands clasping and unclasping in the agony of her mind.
“You told me you weren’t going to hurt her!” she sobbed.
“Get out,” he hissed, and pointed to the door. She went meekly.
A heavy blanket was wrapped round the unconscious girl, and, lifting her between them, the two men went out into the rain, where the old trolley was waiting, and slid her along the straw-covered floor. In another second the trolley moved off, gathering speed.
By this time the effect of the gas had worn off and Mirabelle had regained consciousness. She put out a hand and touched a woman’s knee.
“Who is that—Alma?”
“No,” said a miserable voice, “it’s Joan.”
“Joan? Oh, yes, of course . . . why did you do it?—how wicked!”
“Shut up!” Monty snarled. “Wait until you get to—where you’re going, before you start these ‘whys’ and ‘wherefores.’ ”
Mirabelle was deathly sick and bemused, and for the next hour she was too ill to feel even alarmed. Her head was going round and round, and ached terribly, and the jolting of the truck did not improve matters in this respect.