He crossed the room deliberately and went out, closing the door behind him. He saw at once where he stood—in what danger. If she insisted that she was ill and unable to go back, there would be a fuss. The story would come out. Everything would be gone. Schwitter's, of all places!
At the foot of the stairs, Schwitter pulled himself together. After all, the girl was only ill. There was nothing for the police. He looked at his watch. The doctor ought to be here by this time. It was sooner than they had expected. Even the nurse had not come. Tillie was alone, out in the harness-room. He looked through the crowded rooms, at the overflowing porch with its travesty of pleasure, and he hated the whole thing with a desperate hatred.
Another car. Would they never stop coming! But perhaps it was the doctor. A young man edged his way into the hall and confronted him.
“Two people just arrived here. A man and a woman—in white. Where are they?”
It was trouble then, after all!
“Upstairs—first bedroom to the right.” His teeth chattered. Surely, as a man sowed he reaped.
Joe went up the staircase. At the top, on the landing, he confronted Wilson. He fired at him without a word—saw him fling up his arms and fall back, striking first the wall, then the floor.
The buzz of conversation on the porch suddenly ceased. Joe put his revolver in his pocket and went quietly down the stairs. The crowd parted to let him through.
Carlotta, crouched in her room, listening, not daring to open the door, heard the sound of a car as it swung out into the road.