"Go to your work, I've no arrangement with Freddy. I don't expect him here. If he came I shouldn't let him in. Your honor is safe enough in my hands for to-night. Does that satisfy you?"
Her tone had a merciless lashing quality. He bowed his head before it. His words stumbled.
"I trust you, Bella. I'm sorry."
"Then go. In the morning—"
She waved her hand vaguely.
"We'll arrange—something."
His eyes begged, but she offered nothing more. So he went out, closing the door softly behind him.
Almost immediately he heard the sound of a motor. He couldn't find his hat. The front door bell rang, and, snatching an ancient cap from the table, he opened the door. No one stood in the verandah, but the glare of powerful automobile headlights blinded him.
"You're Mrs. Hanson's chauffeur?" he called.
An indistinct voice came back affirmatively. Randall caught the word "hurry." Therefore he ran down the steps, and, his eyes still blinded by the glare, stepped into a large runabout and settled himself by the driver.
They swung away at a breakneck speed which before long swept Randall's cap from his head and forced him to cling with both hands to the side of the car.
The landscape tore up through the glare and disappeared in a dense and terrifying confusion of darkness.
