It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his. Then he stepped briskly to his feet and bent over the wounded man. It did not cheer or fortify him with false courage and recklessness; it simply enveloped him in a mist of unreality. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. Mr. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered.
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