Driven by these thoughts and by her fear and her apprehension for Rhona's safety, she plunged west, borne by the wind, buffeted, beaten, blown along. The lights behind the French windows were like beacons in a storm. She staggered into the hall, entered the room. Her hair was wild about her face, her cheeks pale, her eyes burning.
The room was still crowded, intensely busy. She noticed nothing, but pushed her way to Joe's desk. He was talking with two girls.
She confronted him.
"Joe!"
He lifted his gray, tragic face, amazed.
"You still here?"
It was as if he had forgotten her. But Myra was not now thinking of herself. She spoke, breathlessly:
"Joe, I think Rhona Hemlitz is in trouble."
"How so?"
"She was knocked down by a thug, and she had him arrested, but I'm afraid she's arrested."