“What house is this?” she asked, drawing back. “Why are you going in there?”
A street lamp shone brightly in front. There was a brass nameplate at one side of the closed front doors. Cork drew her firmly up the steps. “Read that,” said he.
She looked at the name on the plate, and gave a cry between a moan and a scream. “No, no, no, Eddie! Oh, my God, no! I won’t let you do that—not now! Let me go! You shan’t do that! You can’t—you mus’n’t! Not after you know! No, no! Come away quick! Oh, my God! Please, Eddie, come!”
Half fainting, she reeled, and was caught in the bend of his arm. Cork’s right hand felt for the electric button and pressed it long.
Another cop—how quickly they scent trouble when trouble is on the wing!—came along, saw them, and ran up the steps. “Here! What are you doing with that girl?” he called gruffly.
“She’ll be all right in a minute,” said Cork. “It’s a straight deal.”
“Reverend Jeremiah Jones,” read the cop from the door-plate with true detective cunning.
“Correct,” said Cork. “On the dead level, we’re goin’ to get married.”
XXI
THE VENTURERS
Let the story wreck itself on the spreading rails of the Non Sequitur Limited, if it will; first you must take your seat in the observation car “Raison d’être” for one moment. It is for no longer than to consider a brief essay on the subject—let us call it: “What’s Around the Corner.”