Without a word more, Byron rushed downstairs, drew on his coat, and dashed out of the house.
So this had been atrap! Never in his life had he been so furious. His blood was seething. Damn meddling women! He ran all the way back to Lasca's apartment, a matter of four blocks.
He entered the hallway just too late to catch the ascending elevator. Too impatient to wait for its return, he bounded up the stairs, three at a time, until he stood facing Lasca's door on the fourth landing. Breathless, he pushed the button.
Marie opened the door cautiously.
Mrs. Sartoris has not come back, she announced and was about to close the door in his face when he prevented her by inserting his foot in the opening.
I want to come in and wait, he insisted.
My orders are to keep you out.
Why, my clothes are here!
Harry took your clothes back an hour ago.
My clothes . . . ! By God, I will come in! He forced himself past the maid.
Miss Lasca, screamed Marie, I'm being murdered!
The door leading to the drawing-room was flung violently open. Lasca stood framed in the opening.
How dare you break into my house! she cried. Get out of here!
Falling on his knees before her, he clasped her waist in his arms.
