She looked at him with eyes that glowed with hatred. An indescribable but evil curiosity burned in her glance. Then she lowered her eyes again. Christian was forced to speak again: “I think you will be safe from that man there. Try to rest. Perhaps you are ill. We could summon a physician.”
She laughed a soft, sarcastic laugh. Her breath smelt of whiskey.
Crammon called out again.
“Come on then,” Christian said, mastering his aversion with difficulty.
His voice and his words made the same overwhelming impression on her that his appearance had done. She started to go as though she were being propelled from behind.
A sleepy porter in slippers stood at the door of the inn. His servile courtesy proved that Crammon had known how to treat him. “Number 14 on the second floor is vacant,” he said.
“Send some one to your lodgings to-morrow for your things,” Crammon advised the girl.
She did not seem to hear him. Without a word of thanks or greeting she followed the porter up the soiled red carpet of the stairs. The rubber cherries tapped audibly against the brim of her hat. Her clumsy form disappeared in the blackness.
Crammon breathed a sigh of relief. “My kingdom for a four-wheeler,” he moaned. At a nearby corner they found a cab.