“Of course,” said Mrs. Prothero, still dazed.
He bowed to her, and all round. Marie Louise nodded and whispered, “Good night!” and moved toward the door waveringly. Davidge’s heart leaped with pity for her.
Lady Clifton-Wyatt checked him as he hurried past her.
“Oh, Mr. Davidge, I’m stopping at the Shoreham. Won’t you drop in and have a cup of tea with me to-morrow at hahf pahst fah?”
“Thank you! Yes!”
CHAPTER VII
The intended victim of Lady Clifton-Wyatt’s little lynching-bee walked away, holding her head high. But she felt the noose still about her neck and wondered when the rope would draw her back and up.
Marie Louise marched through Mrs. Prothero’s hall in excellent form, with just the right amount of dizziness to justify her escape on the plea of sudden illness. The butler, like a benign destiny, opened the door silently and let her out into the open as once before in London a butler had opened a door and let her into the welcome refuge of walls.