Follow a Stranger

with these wicked insinuations? What right had he? Just

because he led an irregular and immoral life it was no

reason to imagine everyone else was as bad.

Marc stared at her. “Henry Murray?” he repeated

blankly.

“We went for a drive,” she explained, “and were just

having a drink before we went to bed.” Then her last

words echoed in her brain and, with a feeling of hot panic,

she added hastily, “Before I went back to the Murray

apartment, I meant.”

Marc’s face twitched suddenly, as though he were

laughing at her. He looked at her slowly, his gaze

mocking. “You need a comb. May I?” And offered her a

comb from his inside pocket.

She knew, from the derisive smile, that he would not

believe her hair had got rumpled in the drive around

Paris. He was quite determined to bel

ieve the worst.

Jean-Paul swallowed audibly. “It is unfortunate, the

appearance we present, Marc, but you must believe me

that Kate and I ... we were not ... I mean, there is no ...”

he stammered to a silence, scarlet under Marc’s sardonic,

cynical gaze.

Kate stood up. “Oh, never mind, Jean-Paul. Let him

think what he likes. I’d better go back to the apartment, I

think. Will you drive me or shall I call a taxi?”

“At this hour?” drawled Marc. “Allow me—my car is

outside.”

“No, thank you,” she snapped, “I’d rather walk!”

He took her arm in an iron grip. “Now, don’t be