Snub looked a wreck, but the merry gleam in his eyes showed in spite of bruised cheeks and a swollen nose.
McMahon was near the cottage when the prisoners were brought out—and later, when Rollison passed a lighted telephone kiosk, he saw the reporter inside.
Rollison opened one eye and saw Jolly with his morning tea and the newspapers which did not usually arrive so early on Sundays. Jolly said that he had been out, and handed Rollison a copy of the Sunday Cry. McMahon had been allotted a huge headline and a great part of the front page. Rollison sipped his tea and read . . .
Two hours later he went to the Marigold Club, which was not a haunt of vice, or a luxury establishment where the wealthy were mulcted, but a club for women. On its committee was Lady Gloria Hurst, the Toff’s aunt. She had found Barbara a room at the club for the previous night. Tall and austere-looking, she received Rollison with a welcoming smile; for she was fond of him.
“How is she?” asked Rollison.
“As you can imagine,” said Lady Gloria. “But she’s young, she will be all right, although she’ll go on making mistakes.”
“Mistakes?” echoed Rollison.
His aunt’s eyes gleamed wickedly.
“She has a curiously high opinion of you,” she remarked.
THE END