Follow a Stranger

she took of him.

Pallas looked sideways at Marc, who was standing

silently listening, his hands jammed in his pockets.

“Well,” she said, laughing rather falsely, “we must go,

Kate. See you some time.”

Hating herself, yet unable to help it, Kate let her eyes

flicker over Marc’s dark, rigid face. Their eyes met. Hers

shrank and fell before the look in his. Then he and

Pallas had vanished and she was walking out of the

theatre with Jean-Paul.

They drove along the riverside slowly, neither in a

mood for talking. Kate hardly noticed where they drove

after that. By common consent they seemed to drift on in

the red sports car, through street after silent street.

When the car stopped Jean-Paul looked up at the

narrow house, then at her, with surprise. “Oh, I am so

sorry, Kate—I have brought you to my own apartment

by mistake.” He grimaced. “And it is an error, I assure

you, not a trick.”

She smiled. “I’m sure it is, Jean-Paul.” Then she

looked at her watch and gasped in horror. “Good

heavens, look at the time! It’s two o’clock! What will the

Murrays think? I haven’t got a key. I’ll have to knock

them up.”

He exclaimed apologetically, “It is my fault! I forgot

the time! I am so sorry. But look, come in for a cup of

chocolate before you go. I am too tired to think properly

but too depressed to think of sleep The Murrays will

understand. After all, one is not in Paris for nothing!

They will make assumptions, yes, but charitable ones!”