He rang off, and looked up at Esmé with a wry face.
“They’ve heard of the row; and George got the wind up about you. He’s motoring in later to fetch you. How did you get through? Were you roughly handled at all?”
He surveyed the disorder of her hair, her torn and crumpled dress. She looked as though she had been in the thick of the mêlée. She nodded.
“If Paul hadn’t been near I should have been killed,” she answered. “That was how we met. I was on my way here when a Kaffir got hold of me. Paul killed him.”
“Well!” he said, and sat back and stared from one to the other in astonished curiosity. “I take it, that about settles it. It establishes his claim anyway. It seems like an act of Providence that he should be in the right spot at the right moment. I’m not going against that.”
Hallam put out a hand and drew Esmé to his side.
“I’m not for allowing any man to interfere between us,” he said in quiet authoritative tones. “She’s mine all right. We’re both agreed as to that.”
Jim Bainbridge smiled dryly.
“So it seems. Well, it’s the right course, I’ve no doubt.”
He made a mental resolve that he would not be anywhere handy when the explanation with George took place. Thank Heaven, a man had his club to retire to in these domestic crises!