“How did he sound?” asked Deane. “Remember, I know him.”
“Cool on the surface, but determined,” answered Martin, “and worried—no, not worried; just rather desperate.”
“You can’t go!” cried Deane. “I’ve been driven through the place at night. It’s terrifying; a street of yellow lanterns, and figures huddled in shadow like fallen bric-a-brac.”
“I must go,” said Martin.
“Won’t you stay, for me?”
Martin pressed his hand against his temple.
“Yes, Deane,” he answered at last.
“Thank God!” she said. “There is something cruel in the air to-night.” Then, relieved, she asked, “What happened to Rio?”
Martin regarded her so long and steadily that she flushed, looking a little frightened. At last he answered, “The driver helped me get him into the cab and he slept all the way to my place. When I got him on the bed with his shirt off, he awoke in great pain and I smelt a curious odor that came from his back. I’m sure the thorns of the whip held some kind of drug. Rio said they felt like fishhooks and that he was dizzy a moment before he fell on the floor. It’s odd the way Drew is able to handle him. They fought like two dancers.”