“But that's impossible. He may kill you.”
“What has that to do with it?”
This blunt question proved difficult to meet. Boatwright found himself saying, rather weakly, “I'm sure everything can be explained later.”
“The time to explain is now.”
With this, and a slight added sound that might have been an indication of impatience, Brachey strode out.
4
For a moment Boatwright stood in the paralysis of fright; then, catching his breath, he ran out after this strangely resolute man; quickly caught up with him, but found himself ignored. He even talked—incoherently—as his short legs tried to keep pace with the swift long stride of the other. He didn't himself know what he was saying. Nor did he stop when Brachey's arm moved as if to brush him off; though he perhaps had been clinging to that arm.
Brachey stopped, looking about.
“This is the house, isn't it?” he remarked; then turned in toward the steps.
The door burst open then, and a huge shadowy figure plunged out. A woman's voice followed: “I must ask you to please come back, Mr. Doane. Really, if you—”