“I didn’t know it was you,” she said. “They misinformed me. I’m so sorry.”
The girl looked white and tired. One shoulder of her frail summer gown was torn to the elbow and there were red bruises on the skin already turning darker.
“What is the matter?” he demanded bluntly, retaining the nervous hand she had offered and touching her torn sleeve with the other.
She noticed the damage, then, for the first time; the hot colour swept her face.
“An accident,” she murmured. “The place is impassable—a jungle of lumber and knocked-down sets.... Will you please drive me home, Barry?”
“Where is Mr. Smull?”
She lifted her gaze to the man beside her, then calmly turned to Flynn and bade him place her luggage in the taxi. Something in Annan’s eyes had alarmed her.
“Is Smull here?” he repeated.
She did not answer.
An instant vision of Smull’s heavy black pistol and a swift intuition that Smull was capable of using it on anybody except himself,—these thoughts paralysed her tongue.