"Do you need anything?" was the next question from the young woman at the wheel.
"Another head," I grimly acknowledged.
We went on again in silence, for several blocks.
"Would you mind telling me just what happened back in that hall?" I finally asked. That question was prompted, I think, more by a desire to have her relate with her own lips the misdeeds of Michael O'Toole than by any mere desire for information.
"I'd rather not talk about it," was Clarissa Bartlett's very decided answer. But there were certain things which did not and could not escape my attention. She was with me, and not with her Michael. The earlier look of languor and revolt was no longer on her face. She was very pale, I could see, for she was a woman who'd had a sudden and vast awakening. And there was a newer note about her as she adroitly tooled her car down through the more crowded areas of Broadway, a note of decisiveness, a note of firm-lipped determination to face the worst that life might have in store for her. And it was a good deal of a change from what I had seen earlier in the day.
"Where are we going?" I asked, for I noticed that we were once more rounding Central Park.
"Home!" was the girl's brief reply.
