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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
