Carrie did not forget that there was something to be settled between her and Hurstwood, but the thought was ignored in her agitation. The one thing was to finish this strange pilgrimage.
"Where is he?"
"Way out on the South Side," said Hurstwood. "We'll have to take the train. It's the quickest way."
Carrie said nothing, and the horse gambolled on. The weirdness of the city by night held her attention. She looked at the long receding rows of lamps and studied the dark, silent houses.
"How did he hurt himself?" she asked—meaning what was the nature of his injuries. Hurstwood understood. He hated to lie any more than necessary, and yet he wanted no protests until he was out of danger.
"I don't know exactly," he said. "They just called me up to go and get you and bring you out. They said there wasn't any need for alarm, but that I shouldn't fail to bring you."
The man's serious manner convinced Carrie, and she became silent, wondering.
Hurstwood examined his watch and urged the man to hurry. For one in so delicate a position he was exceedingly cool. He could only think of how needful it was to make the train and get quietly away. Carrie seemed quite tractable, and he congratulated himself.
In due time they reached the depot, and after helping her out he handed the man a five-dollar bill and hurried on.
"You wait here," he said to Carrie, when they reached the waiting-room, "while I get the tickets."