He did not hesitate. He did not pause to
make comments or ask questions. With a single cat-like screech which
took years off the lives of the abruptly wakened birds roosting in the
neighbouring trees, he dashed away towards the house and, reaching his
room, locked the door and pushed the bed, the chest of drawers, two
chairs, the towel stand, and three pairs of boots against it. Only then
did he feel comparatively safe.
Out on the drive Billie was staring at the man in armour who had now,
with a masterful wrench which informed the car right away that he would
stand no nonsense, set the engine going again.
"Why--why," she stammered, "why are you wearing that thing on your
head?"
"Because I can't get it off."
Hollow as the voice was, Billie recognised it.
"S--Mr. Marlowe!" she exclaimed.
"Get in," said Sam. He had seated himself at the steering wheel. "Where
can I take you?"
"Go away!" said Billie.
"Get in!"
"I don't want to talk to you."
"I want to talk to _you!_ Get in!"
"I won't.
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