Marion had again opened her eyes.
"A cab!" he cried.
One was on the spot in a short time.
"I'll take charge of this lady--she is a friend of mine," said Cheyne, as he helped her in. To the driver he said: "Knightsbridge Road, and then I'll show you." He got in, and the cab drove away.
CHAPTER XIV.
[A SILENT DRIVE.]
Neither said anything. Both were exhausted. Both were experiencing collapse after the danger and anxieties of the past two days--of the past hour. He put his arm round her to support her, and she leaned on him unconscious, or almost unconscious, that it was really he.
Cheyne now felt for the first time that he was covered with bruises and cuts from slates and nails. Of course, when he came to think of it, nothing but a miracle could have saved him injury in the ordeal through which he had just come. He knew that his clothes were all in tatters. His left leg and right arm felt particularly cold and uncomfortable, with here and there a very slight sense of pain. The pain was not worth talking about, but the cold uncomfortable sensation was new and very sickening.
He did not think of May or of the rescue he had just made. He was feeling, more than thinking. He allowed his mind to drift, and took no heed of the course it followed; and by a circumstance for which he feebly endeavoured to account as the cab rattled along, he found his mind more occupied with a curious observation of his own physical condition, that with any thought of May or recent events. This was very strange, and perplexed him in a hazy sort of way, as one is perplexed on waking in a dark strange room, and being unable to recollect in what relation the bed stands to the door or the door to the window.
Why could not he take his mind off his left leg and his right arm, when he had just not only recovered his lost darling, whom he had been two days seeking, but whom he had only just delivered from imminent risk of death? It was strange, very strange.