Later on, as he stood looking down at the inert figure in the
big rocking chair, and panting from his labours, he heard her say
patiently:
"And now will you be so good as to direct me to the Post-road."
He scratched his head. "This is mighty queer, the whole business,"
he declared, assailed by doubts. "Suppose you are NOT Mrs. Wrandall,
but--the other one. What then?"
As if in answer to his question, the man Morley opened his blear-eyes
and tried to get to his feet.
"Wha--what are we doin' here, Mis' Wran'all? Wha's up?"
"Stay where you are, Steve," said the other. "It's all right."
Then he went forth and pointed the way to her. "It's a long ways
to Columbus Circle," he said. "I don't envy you the trip. Keep
straight ahead after you hit the Post-road." He stood there listening
until the whir of the motor was lost in the distance. "She'll never
make it," he said to himself. "It's more than a strong man could
do on roads like these. She must be crazy."
Coming to the Post-road, she increased the speed of the car, with
the sharp wind behind her, her eyes intent on the white stretch
that leaped up in front of the lamps like a blank wall beyond
which there was nothing but dense oblivion. But for the fact that
she knew that this road ran straight and unobstructed into the
outskirts of New York, she might have lost courage and decision.
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