"_This_ is the matter," I said. "There's no mistaking what it means!"
To my ears my voice sounded hysterical, and I have no doubt it was,
for what I was doing went against the grain. The one thing I most
desire is to play the great game of life according to the highest
rules. Yet here, under the eyes of Dillon's future wife, I was
directing a relentless light on the young man's bare arm--an arm
peppered with dark needle-pricks, and covered with telltale scars. For
one instant, before the mind of its owner took in what I was saying,
it remained before us, giving its mute, horrible testimony to constant
use of the hypodermatic syringe. The next, it was wrenched away with a
jerk that knocked the bull's-eye from my hand. Over me Dillon leaned,
his face livid with rage.
"I'll make you regret that!" he snarled.
"Oh no, you won't, Herbert," Miss Morris said, gently. "This is not a
melodrama, you know. And you haven't anything against Miss Iverson,
for I was already beginning to--to--understand. Take us home."
He started to speak, but something in her eyes checked him, and with a
little shrug--no doubt, too, with the philosophy of the drug victim
who has just had his drug--he turned away. In silence he rolled down
his sleeves, put on his fur coat, took his place at the wheel, and,
turning the car, started back through the clearing fog toward the far
lights of the city.
It was a long ride and a silent one. At his wheel Dillon sat
motionless, his jaws set, his eyes staring straight ahead. His
driving, I noticed, was much more careful than on our outward ride.
Not once did I see Grace Morris look at him. Once or twice she
shivered, as if she felt cold. When we were on the ferry-boat Dillon
turned and spoke to her.
"I'm sorry I lost my temper," he said. "I suppose--your manner seems
to mean--that--I've lost everything."
For a moment Miss Morris did not reply. Under the robe her hand
slipped into mine and clung there, as if in a lonely world she
suddenly felt the need of a human touch.
"Poor old Herbert," she said, then, very gently. "I'm afraid we've
both lost everything. This has been a nightmare, but--I needed it."
There was absolute finality in her voice. Without a word the young man
turned from her and sat staring at the river lights before us. Miss
Morris pressed my hand.
"I'm going to take you home with me," she announced. She took out her
watch and looked at it. "Quarter to three," she murmured. "What a
night!" And after a moment she added under her breath, "And what an
escape!"
She threw back her shoulders with a gesture as energetic as if at the
same time she had cast off some intolerable burden. Then she added, in
her cool, cynical fashion, "It's only fair, you know, that after such
a vigil your drooping spirit should be refreshed by the rain of my
mother's grateful tears--not to speak of Godfrey's!"