"Don't ask me," he said in a low voice that trembled slightly like a sick man's.
"I DO ask you."
"You know what's the matter with me, Miss Erith," he insisted in the same low, unsteady voice.
"Please," she said: and laid one small gloved hand lightly on his arm.
So he entered the car; the chauffeur drew the robe over them, and stood awaiting orders.
"Home," said Miss Erith faintly.
If McKay was astonished he did not betray it. Neither said anything more for a while. The man rested an elbow on the sill, his troubled, haggard face on his hand; the girl kept her gaze steadily in front of her with a partly resolute, partly scared expression. The car went up Park Avenue and then turned westward.
When it stopped the girl said: "You will give me a few moments in my library with you, won't you?"
The visage he turned to her was one of physical anguish. They sat confronting each other in silence for an instant; then he rose with a visible effort and descended, and she followed.
"Be at the garage at two, Wayland," she said, and ascended the snowy stoop beside McKay.