He would not let her see him off from the station; and she lay in bed, watching him as he laced his high-boots, straightened his spur-chains, pinned khaki collar.
“Anyway, old thing,” he said, “we’ve had a great time together. And in four or five months, well make another week of it. . . .”
He went down to his early breakfast; came back again; kissed her good-bye.
“Take care of yourself, Peter,” she smiled at him. And again he answered “Trust me, old thing. . . .”
But as she listened to the taxi purring down Harley Street, to the slam of the closing front-door, it seemed to Patricia as though there were no Power, either heavenly or earthly, in whom a woman of those days might put her trust.
PART NINETEENTHE CITY OF FEAR