“About three hours ago. Said I’d a headache and believed I’d go to my room. But I didn’t. I just slipped down to the village and hired a taxi. Maybe we’d better keep our marriage a secret, at first.” Irrelevantly.
“Maybe we had,” answered Bob. And then he called out to the man in front. “Stop a moment.”
Before Miss Dolly had time to expostulate, the driver obeyed. Bob sprang out.
“You aren’t going to leave me, are you?” said the temperamental little thing. “If so—” She made as if to get out, too.
“No; I’m not going to leave you just yet,” answered Bob. Then to the driver: “See here! Your blamed machine is turned in the wrong direction. You know where you’re going to take us?”
“New York.”
“No; back to Mrs. Ralston’s. You take the first cross-road you come to and steer right for there.”
“You’re not to do any such thing,” called out Miss Dolly. “You’re to go where I tell you.”
“You’re to do nothing of the sort,” said Bob. “You’re to go where I tell you.”
The driver scratched his head.