CHAPTER ELEVEN
I'M afraid I was thinking more about my mortal body than about my immortal soul, during that ride through the midnight streets of the city. But I was bone-tired by this time, and already the stupefying fumes of my utter weariness were beginning to float like a mist before me and the happenings of the last few hours. I lost my interest in things. I didn't seem to care much how they came out. And somewhere at the back of my brain revolved a strangely mixed-up reel of weasel-faced old men and haunted houses and lavalieres and rubies and diamonds and four-posters and wills and wall-safes and boned capon and crêpe-de-chine nightgowns and automobiles that purred along wet pavements and thumped softly over car-tracks and swayed a little from side to side like the arm of a mumble-low mammy putting a tired baby to sleep. And I was the baby.
I didn't care much where my Hero-Man took me, or what happened to me, so long as I was left there in peace, against those well-padded cushion-backs. But through the soft fog of weariness that sur-
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