"I don't understand.... What became of—her?"
"Got away clean, worse luck!—ducked past me and through the window like a shot. I tried to follow but she gave me the slip in the dark. That's all right: she won't trouble us again. She left her pistol behind—anyway, it was empty—and the police will pick her up before morning.... Now: how about getting up?"
"I'll try," Lucinda said meekly. "Please help me." But then, appreciating that she was in no way incapacitated, she got up unaided, and steadied herself with a hand on the back of the lounge.
Summerlad lay where he had fallen, on the far side of that piece of furniture. His face, upturned to the staring light, was like a thing of sculptured ivory, expressionless and bleached; the lips ajar, the whites of his eyes alone visible under the half-shut lids with their effeminate lashes. The shirt beneath the flowered dressing-gown was hideously blotted. He was so deathly still that terror took hold on Lucinda's heart and mind.
"You think.... O Bel! do you really think he will live?"
"No fear," Bel sneered. "He'll make a fool of many another woman before he's finished. Here: put this on, will you?"
He was proffering her wrap. Like an automaton Lucinda accepted it, but seemed to forget that the thing was meant for wear.
"Where's your car?"
"I told my driver to call up about ten——"
"I'll attend to that, then. My chauffeur will run you down to the hotel. I think he's to be trusted. Wish I felt as sure of that Jap."