'You mean it? As you please. You know what I——'
Alma raised herself, drew the cabman's attention, and bade him drive to Baker Street. There was a short silence, Dymes glaring and muttering inarticulately.
'Of course, if you really have a bad headache,' he growled at length.
'Indeed I have—and you treat me very unkindly.'
'Hang it, Alma, don't speak like that! As if I could be unkind to you!'
He secured her hand again, and she did not resist. Then they talked of business, settled one or two matters, appointed another meeting. As they drew near to the station, Alma spoke impulsively, with a bewildered look.
'I shouldn't wonder if I give it up, after all.'
'Rot!' was her companion's amazed exclamation.
'I might. I won't answer for it. And it would be your fault.'
Stricken with alarm, Dymes poured forth assurances of his good behaviour. He followed her down to the platform, and for a quarter of an hour she had to listen, in torment of mind and body, to remonstrances, flatteries, amorous blandishments, accompanied by the hiss of steam and the roar of trains.