"She's all safe, Miss—she's all safe—you go home," said a friendly policeman. "These gentlemen will look after you! Stand back there!" And he tried to open a passage for them.
Winnington touched her arm. But an involuntary moan startled him. "She's hurt her arm"—said Andrews in his ear—"twisted it somehow. Go to the other side of her—put your arm round her, and I'll clear the way."
Delia struggled—"No—no!—let me go!"
But she was powerless. Winnington nearly carried her through the crowd, while her faintness increased. By the time they reached the motor, she was barely conscious. The two men lifted her in. Andrews stood looking at her a moment, as she sank back with Winnington beside her, his ruddy countenance expressing perhaps the most acute emotion of which its possessor had ever yet been capable.
"Good-night. You'll take her home," he said gruffly, and lifted his hat. But the next moment he ran back to say—"I'll go back and find out what's happened. She'll want to know. Where are you taking her?"
"Smith's Hotel," said Winnington—"to my sister." And he gave the order to the chauffeur.
They set out. Mark passed his arm round her again, to support her, and she drooped unconsciously upon his shoulder. A fierce joy—mingled with his wrath and disgust. This must be—this should be the end! Was such a form made for sordid violence and strife? Her life just breathed against his—he could have borne her so for ever.
But as soon as they had revived her, and she opened her eyes in Mrs.
Matheson's sitting-room at the hotel, she burst into a cry of misery.
"Where's Gertrude!—let me go to her! Where am I?"
As they wrestled with and soothed her, a servant knocked.