The Keeper of the Door

by Ethel M. Dell

"I don't know. The five-twenty probably."

He glanced at the clock. "Half an hour from now. And where is the fair
Violet?"

"I don't know. He said she had gone in. I suppose I ought to go and see."

"Sit still!" said Max, frowning over his darning. "She is probably reading some obscene novel, and won't be wanting you."

"Max!"

"I apologize," said Max.

Olga smiled faintly. "It's horrid of you to talk like that."

"It's me," said Max.

She dried the last of her tears. "What—what did you do with him?"

"Packed him into the motor and told Mitchel to drive him home."