"I'm going to kick hell out of him."
"You're not going up there?"
"No? Watch me! That's all I ask, just watch me." "I won't let you! No, I'm serious. I mean it! You can't―"
Rampole emitted a laugh modelled on the pattern of a stage villain. He took the lamp from the table and hurried out towards the hall, so that she was forced to follow. She seemed to be fluttering around him.
"I asked you not to!"
"So you did," replied the other, putting on his raincoat. "Just help me with the sleeve of this thing, will you? Good girl! Now what I want," he added, inspecting the hatstand, "is a cane. A good heavy one…. Here we are. `Are you armed, Lestrade?' 'I am armed.' Plenty."
"Then, I warn you, I'll go along!" she cried, accusingly.
"Well, get your coat on, then. I don't know how long that little joker will wait. Come to think of it, I'd better have a flashlight; the doctor left one here last night, as I remember…. Now."
"Darling!" said Dorothy Starbeth. "I was hoping you'd let me go…."
Soaked, splattering through mud, they cut down across the lawn and into the meadow. She had some difficulty manoeuvring the fence in her long raincoat; as he lifted her over it, he felt a kiss on his wet cheek, and the exultation of confronting that person in the Governor's Room began to leave him. This wasn't a joke. It was ugly, dangerous work. He turned in the dimness.