"Why the distress signal?" queried Bob.
"Mr. Bergman has—been drinking."
"Rum is poison," he told her, with mock indignation. "He must be a low person."
"He's getting unpleasant."
"Shall I take him by the nose and run around the block?"
"You can do me a favor."
He was serious in an instant. "You were nice to me the other night. I'm sorry to see you with this fellow."
"He forced—he deceived me into coming, and he's taking advantage of conditions to—be nasty."
Bob missed a step, then apologized. His next words were facetious, but his tone was ugly; "Where do you want the remains sent?"
"Will you wait and see that mine are safely sent home?" She leaned back, and her troubled twilight eyes besought him.