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—”
“Mr. Randall,” she said, “I’m sure—oh, please stop the car! I know you’re hurt!”
“Would you care, if I were?”
“Yes!” she cried. “Yes, I would care! Oh, please don’t go on! Stop the car, and let me see!”
But he went on along the smooth, empty road, not driving fast now, but very, very carefully.