The car was running slowly. "Have you any other friends in town?"
asked Martin, who seemed to be trying to hide an odd kind of
excitement.

"No," said Joan. "Alice is my only friend here. Drive to some place
where I can call up Gilbert Palgrave and explain the whole thing.
What does it matter about my being alone? If I don't mind, who
should? Please do as I say. There's no other place for me to go to,
and wild horses sha'n't drag me back."

"You sha'n't go back," said Martin. He turned the car up Madison
Avenue and drove without another word to East Sixty-seventh Street
and stopped in front of a small house that was sandwiched between a
mansion and a twelve-story apartment-house. "This is mine," he said
simply. "Will you come in?"

A smile of huge relief came into Joan's eyes. "Why worry?" she said.
"How foolish of us not to have thought of this before!"

But there was no smile on Martin's face. His eyes were amazingly
bright and his mouth set firmly. His chin looked squarer than ever.
Once more he carried out the suit-case, put a latchkey into the lock
and threw back the door. Joan went in and stood looking about the
cheery hall with its old oak, and sporting prints, white wood and
red carpet. "Oh, but this is perfectly charming, Marty," she cried
out. "Why did we bother our heads about Alice when there is this
haven of refuge?"

Martin marched up to her and stood eye to eye. "Because I'm alone,"