Footsteps went by in the fog in front of them, automobiles slid by behind them, tooting their unheard horns.
"Oh, Jane, I—I can't help it," he whispered in her ear, and his arm went round her shoulders. "I—I love you so."
She put her hand up to his cheek and held it there.
"I—I know it, Eric," she said, ever so softly.
It may have been five minutes, or ten minutes—even so long as half an hour. There is no way to determine the actual lapse of time, or consciousness, that followed her declaration. The patrolman who came up and stopped in front of them, peering hard at the dense, immobile mass that had attracted his attention for the simple reason that it wasn't there when he passed on his uptown round, couldn't have thrown any light on the question. He had no means of knowing just when it began.
"Well, what's all this?" he demanded suspiciously.
Jane sighed, and disengaged herself. Trotter stood up, confronting the questioner.
"We're waiting for a taxi," he said.
"What's this? A trunk?" inquired the officer, tapping the object with his night-stick.
"It is," said Trotter.