A few minutes later he found himself speeding homeward in a taxi that, despite the reckless audacity of the liberally subsidized driver, could not go fast enough. The momentary halts imposed by cross-traffic seemed interminably prolonged delays. Of course he was a fool, he told himself—but his impatience increased with every second, set his fingers drumming upon the unread evening newspaper on his knee. At last! The taxi swung into the pavement in front of the tall block of flats where he had his city home. He jumped out with the feverish alacrity of a man who hastens to avert disaster, almost ran to the elevator.
Another moment and he was fitting his key into the latch. He swung the door open—was confronted by Betty in hat and furs, apparently just on the point of departure. She shrank back at his entrance, went white.
“Jack!”
The tone of her voice reëchoed in him like an alarm-bell. He looked sharply at her.
“Where are you going?”
She stared at him, white to the lips, evidently unable to answer. He repeated the question in a level voice from which, by an effort of will, he banished the wild suspicion which suddenly surged up in him.
“Where are you going, Betty?”
She laughed, a trifle hysterically.
“You are taking a great interest in my doings all at once, Jack! I’m going out, of course.—I told you I had an appointment.”
His eyes met hers, held them till they dropped and she went suddenly red. He opened the door of an adjoining room, gestured her to enter, followed her.