I have a rather bewildered notion of what happened when Colonel Primrose closed the door on Mrs. de Courcey and came back into the room with Bill Hogan. I had a distinct feeling of relief that Hogan had come alone, not trailing clouds of official glory in the form of newshawks, photographers and confidential assistants who’d turn out to be confidential friends of every hat check girl, gambling house tout, bell boy and scandalmonger in Washoe Valley. Even then, I know I dreaded Judy’s coming out of the blessed anesthesia of unconsciousness worse than anything in the world. What she might say, what she might do, I didn’t dare try to think.
And then, as I looked down at her face, the suntanned skin unwarmed by the glow of blood under it, drawn in sculptured purity over the exquisitely delica
