I laughed and threw the stick in the corner of the room. "We'll leave that as a keepsake," I said. "Come along, Billy. I expect Mercia's ready by now."
We went out into the hall, shutting the door behind us, and thus cutting off the somewhat incoherent curses of Señor Rojas. Mercia, carrying a bag in her hand, was just coming down the staircase. From the sparkle in her eyes, I gathered that some echoes of our revelry must have reached her ears.
"Mercia," I said, taking the bag, "this is Billy. We owe a lot to Billy."
She gave him her hand with that sweet grace that characterised every movement.
"How can I thank you?" she said softly.
Billy bent down and kissed the tips of her fingers. "I don't want any thanks," he answered, straightening himself and looking at her with his frank smile. "I love a row any time."
"Are you quite ready, Mercia?" I asked.
She nodded, and we went out, closing the front door behind us.
The car was standing where we had left it, its big headlamps throwing two broad beams of golden light up the deserted road. As we reached it, Mercia, who was walking between us, suddenly swayed. I caught her in my arms, or I believe she would have fallen.
"I—I think I must be a little faint," she faltered. "I've not had anything to eat since last night."