“Half past one, or worse,” said Winfield, pointing with his toe to the auto-clock. “That’s usually slow.”
“Good Lord! I ought to be in the shop this minute. Turn round and fly!”
They were far out in the country. Winfield looked regretfully at the vista ahead. Turning round in a narrow road was a slow and maddening process, and Sheila’s nerves grated like the clutch. Once faced townward, they sped ferociously. She doubted if she would ever arrive alive. There were swoops and skids and flights of chickens and narrow escapes from the murder of dogs who charged ferociously and vanished in a diminuendo of yelps.
There followed an exciting race with the voice of a motor-cycle coming up from the rear. Winfield laughed it to scorn until Sheila, glancing back, saw that it carried a policeman.
“He’s waving to us. Stop!”
“If I do we’ll never make it. I’ll put you in the theater on time if I go to jail for life.”
“No, no; I won’t get you into trouble. Please stop. He looks like a nice policeman. I’ll tell him you’re a doctor and I’m a trained nurse.”
Winfield slowed down, and the policeman came up, sputtering like his own blunderbuss. Sheila tried to look like a trained nurse, but missed the costume and the make-up. She began at once:
“Oh, please, Mr. Officer, it’s all my fault. You see, the doctor has a dying patient, and I—I—”
“Why, it’s Sheila Ke— Miss Kemble! Ain’t you playin’ this afternoon?”