Jean uttered a sharp cry.
"A doctor!" she exclaimed.
Paul shook his head.
"I am doctor enough to know death. Atwood, get your wife away."
"But now—" Jean resisted.
"Go, go!" he commanded, driving them before him. "Mrs. St. Aubyn will do what a woman can. I will attend to the police. You left for rest, believing her asleep. I suspected suicide, and broke down the door. That's our story. Go while you can."
They went out as in a dream, striking away at random when they issued on the street, seeking only to shun the still idling curious, grateful beyond words for release, avid for the pure, vital air. Presently, in some quarter, they knew not where, a cab-driver hailed them, and they passively entered his hansom and as passively sat dependent on his superior will.
"Where to?" asked the man, impatiently.
Atwood shook himself awake. "The Copley Studios," he answered. "Do you know the building? It's near—"
The closing trap clipped his directions, and they drove away. They gave no heed to their course till, passing a park entrance, they came full upon a knot of urchins and nursemaids clustered between lake and drive.