“Good God,” he whispered, “something has happened to Rita!”
Neglectful of his personal safety, he plunged out into the traffic, dodging this way and that, and making after Monte Irvin’s car. Of the fact that his friend was close beside him he remained unaware until, on the corner of old Bond Street, a firm grip settled upon his shoulder. Gray turned angrily. But the grip was immovable, and he found himself staring into the unemotional face of Seton Pasha.
“Seton, for God’s sake, don’t detain me! I must learn what’s wrong.”
“Pull up, Gray.”
Quentin Gray clenched his teeth.
“Listen to me, Seton. This is no time for interference. I—”
“You are about to become involved in some very unsavory business; and I repeat—pull up. In a moment we shall learn all there is to be learned. But are you determined openly to thrust yourself into the family affairs of Mr. Monte Irvin?”
“If anything has happened to Rita I’ll kill that damned cur Pyne!”
“You are determined to intrude upon this man in your present frame of mind at a time of evident trouble?”
But Gray was deaf to the promptings of prudence and good taste alike.