My feathers have kept me dry." Her voice had a trembling, half-sobbing, half-rejoicing note in it.

It was not the voice of one who had recently killed a man.

In it was a pathos which Kent knew she was trying to hide behind brave words.

Her hands clung to the arm of his rubber slicker even as they stood there, close together, as if she was afraid something might drag them apart in that treacherous gloom.

Kent, fumbling for a moment, drew from an inner pocket a dry handkerchief.