By the time I had got her into coat and hat, Collinson had come away from the window and was spluttering questions at me. What was the matter with her? Oughtn’t we to get a doctor? Was it safe to take her out? And when I stood up, he took her away from me, supporting her with his long, thick arms, babbling: “It’s Eric, Gaby. Don’t you know me? Speak to me. What is the matter, dear?”
“There’s nothing the matter except that she’s got a skinful of dope,” I said. “Don’t try to bring her out of it. Wait till we get her home. You take this arm and I’ll take that. She can walk all right. If we run into anybody, just keep going and let me handle them. Let’s go.”
We didn’t meet anybody. We went out to the elevator, down in it to the ground floor, across the foyer, and into the street without seeing a single person.
We went down to the corner where we had left Mickey in the Chrysler.
“That’s all for you,” I told him.
He said: “Right, so long,” and went away.
Collinson and I wedged the girl between us in the roadster, and he put it in motion.
We rode three blocks. Then he asked: “Are you sure home’s the best place for her?”
I said I was. He didn’t say anything for five more blocks and then repeated his question, adding something about a hospital.
“Why not a newspaper office?” I sneered.
Three blocks of silence, and he started again: “I know a doctor who–”
“I’ve got work to do,” I said; “and Miss Leggett home now, in the shape she’s in now, will help me get it done. So she goes home.”
He scowled, accusing me angrily: “You’d humiliate her, disgrace her, endanger her life, for the sake of–”
“Her life’s in no more danger than yours or mine. She’s simply got a little more of the junk in her than she can stand up under. And she took it. I didn’t give it to her.”
The girl we were talking about was alive and breathing between us–even sitting up with her eyes open–but knowing no more of what was going on than if she had been in Finland.
We should have turned to the right at the next corner. Collinson held the car straight and stepped it up to forty-five miles an hour, staring ahead, his face hard and lumpy.
“Take the next turn,” I commanded.
“No,” he said, and didn’t. The speedometer showed a 50, and people on the sidewalks began looking after us as we whizzed by.
“Well?” I asked, wriggling an arm loose from the girl’s side.
“We’re going down the peninsula,” he said firmly. “She’s not going home in her condition.”
I grunted: “Yeah?” and flashed my free hand at the controls. He knocked it aside, holding the wheel with one hand, stretching the other out to block me if I tried again.
“Don’t do that,” he cautioned me, increasing our speed another half-dozen miles. “You know what will happen to all of us if you–”
I cursed him, bitterly, fairly thoroughly, and from the heart. His face jerked around to me, full of righteous indignation because, I suppose, my language wasn’t the kind one should use in a lady’s company.
And that brought it about.
A blue sedan came out of a cross-street a split second before we got there. Collinson’s eyes and attention got back to his driving in time to twist the roadster away from the sedan, but not in time to make a neat job of it. We missed the sedan by a couple of inches, but as we passed behind it our rear wheels started sliding out of line. Collinson did what he could, giving the roadster its head, going with the skid, but the corner curb wouldn’t co-operate. It stood stiff and hard where it was. We hit it sidewise and rolled over on the lamp-post behind it. The lamp-post snapped, crashed down on the sidewalk. The roadster, over on its side, spilled us out around the lamp-post. Gas from the broken post roared up at our feet.