Of one accord all the men turned and looked at Pen. She bore it unflinchingly. She disdained to turn away. Riever's face working uncontrollably with rage, looked truly devilish. Conscious that he was betraying himself, he turned his back sharply to the light.
When she had given them their fill of looking, Pen turned and commenced to walk slowly away.
"One moment, Miss!" said Delehanty.
Pen half turned. "I'm going home," she said in a composed voice. "If I'm wanted you'll find me there."
She walked on, taking care not to hurry herself. But her heart was beating with a bird's wings.
"No, you don't!" cried Delehanty, and started after her.
Riever with an odd, tense spring, caught his arm. There was a whispered colloquy, and as a result Delehanty stayed, and Riever went after Pen. The little man, tense with passion, had for the first time a sort of dignity. He was rather a terrible figure. Pen, hearing his cat-like steps behind her, was sorely afraid. He overtook her alongside the automobile that was waiting in the road.
"Will you get in?" he asked in a queer, thick voice.
Pen reflected that she would be safer in the car with the chauffeur than walking up the hill alone. She got in without speaking.
During the short ride up to the house they exchanged no word. Pen was pressed into her corner, Riever into his. He sat as still as an animal, his back slightly hunched, his hands on his thighs. Ugly-looking hands he had that the moonlight could not dignify: too small for a man, furtive-looking, hands acquainted with evil. Pen shuddered at them. When they passed between the broken gates and rounded the shrubbery, Pen saw with dismay that all the windows of the big house were dark. Her father had gone to bed.