"That's where the Chapman murder took place," volunteered the driver.
Jean shut her eyes.
"This way of all ways!"
"It is behind us now," Craig comforted. "It's all behind us now."
Neither spoke again till they reached the studio, and a porter announced the arrival of several trunks.
"They're yours, Jean," Atwood said. "I ordered them sent here when Julie telephoned for instructions. I realize that there is no going back. She admits that she did you a wrong—she will tell you so herself; but that doesn't alter matters. We must live our own lives. To-night we'll go away for a time. In the mountains or by the sea, whichever you will, we'll plan for the future. It's time the air-castles were made real."
He ordered a luncheon from a neighboring restaurant, forced her to eat, and then to rest. She said that sleep was impossible, and that she must repack against their journey; but her eyelids grew heavy even while she protested, and she was just drowsily aware that he threw over her some studio drapery which emitted a spicy oriental scent.
It was a dreamless sleep until just before she woke, when she shivered again under the obsession of Amy's door-bell. The studio furnishings delivered her from the delusion, but a bell rang on. Where was Craig? Then her eye fell upon a scrawl, transfixed to her pillow by a hatpin, which told her that he had gone to arrange for their departure; and she roused herself to answer the door. Here, for an instant, the dream seemed still to haunt, for the caller who greeted her was the reporter of the morning who had taken her denial.
"I'm right sorry to bother you again, Mrs. Atwood," he apologized. "I'm looking for your husband."
"Mr. Atwood is out."