“Why—why,” she stammered, “why are you wearing that thing on your head?”
“Because I can’t get it off.”
Hollow as the voice was, Billie recognised it.
“S—Mr. Marlowe!” she exclaimed.
“Get in,” said Sam. He had seated himself at the steering wheel. “Where can I take you?”
“Go away!” said Billie.
“Get in!”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“I want to talk to you! Get in!”
“I won’t.”