The diamond bracelet was on his wrist. It was four-thirty Monday morning. The "drag" had continued all day Sunday. He had been madly drunk. Vaguely he recalled a dance. He had stripped off his golden dress, his veil of silk. He had danced as he always wanted to dance—completely free of clothes, a living poem in flesh.
Then in a room with Ernie Emerson. He did not recall what he had done. Raging torrents of passion, even blows. Then sleep. When he awoke, the diamond bracelet was on his wrist, the diamond ring on his finger. A suit of men's clothes, shoes and undergarments lay at the foot of the deep, soft bed in which he had been sleeping.
His nerves jerked jokingly. He dressed. As he walked across the floor, he seemed to have awakened a negro servant who had been sleeping outside his door. Half an hour later, the negro was driving him back to Boston. The sun was already rising in mist over the ocean as the car came to a stop.
"What's the matter?" Ken asked.
The negro jumped down from his seat, opened the door of the car and said to Ken, "Git out."
"What for?"
"You can git a taxicab to town ovah yondah about a mile." He pointed to a factory building across a field.
"But I wanta go home."
The negro took a five dollar bill from his pocket. "This'll git you home. And gimme dem jewels."
"Who said so?" Ken's mind awakened to the significance of the man's actions.
"Or else—" threatened the negro. He held an automatic in his right hand.
