Yes, I've a message. You'll find 'er in the
cloakroom. She's been in there for the last half-'our or so. I think
she's got the headache or something of that sort, and is waiting for you
to take 'er home."
"Oh, thank goodness, there you are, Richard!" cried Mary as he opened
the door of the cloakroom; and she rose from the bench on which she had
been sitting with her shawl wrapped round her. "I thought you'd never
come." She was pale, and looked distressed.
"Why, what's wrong, my dear? . . . feeling faint?" asked Mahony
incredulously. "If so, you had better wait for the buggy. It won't be
long now; you ordered it for two o'clock."
"No, no, I'm not ill, I'd rather walk," said Mary breathlessly. "Only
please let us get away. And without making a fuss."
"But what's the matter?"
"I'll tell you as we go. No, these boots won't hurt. And I can walk in
them quite well. Fetch your own things, Richard." Her one wish was to
get her husband out of the building.
They stepped into the street; it was a hot night and very dark. In her
thin satin dancing-boots, Mary leaned heavily on Richard's arm, as they
turned off the street-pavements into the unpaved roads.
Mahony let the lights of the main street go past; then said: "And now,
Madam Wife, you'll perhaps be good enough to enlighten me as to what all
this means?"
"Yes, dear, I will," answered Mary obediently. But her voice trembled;
and Mahony was sharp of hearing.
"Why, Polly sweetheart .
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