"Who are you?" he abruptly demanded of Genevieve. "A girl, as I'm
alive!"
"That's all right, she's his girl," spoke up a young fellow she
recognized as her guide.
"And you?" the other man blurted explosively at Silverstein.
"I'm vit her," he answered truculently.
"She works for him," explained the young fellow. "It's all right, I tell
you."
The newcomer grunted and knelt down. He passed a hand over the damp
head, grunted again, and arose to his feet.
"This is no case for me," he said. "Send for the ambulance."
Then the thing became a dream to Genevieve. Maybe she had fainted, she
did not know, but for what other reason should Silverstein have his arm
around her supporting her? All the faces seemed blurred and unreal.
Fragments of a discussion came to her ears. The young fellow who had
been her guide was saying something about reporters. "You vill get your
name in der papers," she could hear Silverstein saying to her, as from a
great distance; and she knew she was shaking her head in refusal.
There was an eruption of new faces, and she saw Joe carried out on a
canvas stretcher. Silverstein was buttoning the long overcoat and
drawing the collar about her face. She felt the night air on her cheek,
and looking up saw the clear, cold stars. She jammed into a seat.
Silverstein was beside her. Joe was there, too, still on his stretcher,
with blankets over his naked body; and there was a man in blue uniform
who spoke kindly to her, though she did not know what he said.
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