The thing that followed was utterly unreal. Geraldine saw him standing there, bareheaded, in his dinner jacket, in that brilliant light, like an actor on a stage. He had just lit a cigarette, and was smiling at something the garage man said, when another car came by and stopped with grating brakes, a voice shouted something, and a shot rang out. Before the girl could believe that it had happened, the other car had gone on, and Randall and the garage man stood there, motionless, white, as if listening intently to the shot that still echoed in the air.
“Get his number!” the man bawled suddenly.
She saw Randall put his hand into his pocket and bring out a roll of bills. She could not hear what he said, but it was a short enough speech. The man thrust the money into his own pocket, and ran to connect the hose. Randall climbed back into the car.
“That’s enough!” he said.
In a minute they were off again. They went around the drive before the station, turned homeward.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said curtly. Then, in a moment: “I suppose you’ve got to know. It was Page, trying a little melodrama. No harm done, but—but I wish to God you hadn’t got mixed up in it! I’m going to get you home as fast as I can. Just keep quiet about the whole thing, won’t you? Don’t—”
He stopped abruptly, and the car swerved to one side. He muttered something under his breath, and went on steadily again; but suspicion began to dawn upon her.
“Mr. Randall!” she cried. “Are you hurt?”
“No!” he replied, with a laugh—a strange laugh; “only—”