n her shame and terror at being caught, Carmella awaited anything, her brain numb and her body suddenly cold. She expected Dixon to say that she was a harpy—she had read the word somewhere—and explain that he was only waiting to drive her to the police station and give her up.
Dixon turned casually to his employer’s angry question.
“You know Carmella Coletta, Mr. Barrington. Her dad’s your cellar man out at Greendale. Remember how she fought off the fake business agent one day?”
Mr. Barrington grunted. He had never quite forgiven himself for yielding to Carmella’s hold-up on the price of her father’s lots. But he had admired her beyond measure on the day of which Dixon spoke.
“Well,” went on the chauffeur, “I saw her hurrying past here a few minutes ago and stopped her to find out if she couldn’t hurry Tommaso and his gang. She didn’t want to wait; said she was due home. I said I was sure you’d like to get her help and would let me drive her there.”
[183]
