"Oh, Jane, I—I can't help it," he whispered in her ear, and his arm went round her shoulders. "I—I love you so."
She put her hand up to his cheek and held it there.
"I—I know it, Eric," she said, ever so softly.
It may have been five minutes, or ten minutes—even so long as half an hour. There is no way to determine the actual lapse of time, or consciousness, that followed her declaration. The patrolman who came up and stopped in front of them, peering hard at the dense, immobile mass that had attracted his attention for the simple reason that it wasn't there when he passed on his uptown round, couldn't have thrown any light on the question. He had no means of knowing just when it began.
"Well, what's all this?" he demanded suspiciously.
Jane sighed, and disengaged herself. Trotter stood up, confronting the questioner.
"We're waiting for a taxi," he said.
"What's this? A trunk?" inquired the officer, tapping the object with his night-stick.
"It is," said Trotter.
"Out of one of these houses along here?" He described a half-circle with his night-stick.
"Right in front of you."
"That's the Smith-Parvis house. They've got a couple of cars, my bucko. What you givin' me? Whadda you mean taxi?"
"She happens not to be one of the family. The courtesy of the port is not extended to her, you see."
"Hired girl?"
