“As something more than a friend if you will, Penelope,” he said, and his voice sounded in his own ears as a hoarse whisper. “As a man who would do anything in the world to be more than your friend. It is presumption⁠—I am only a police inspector⁠—you scarcely know me⁠—but if⁠—”

He paused aghast at his own incoherent ineptitude. The girl pulled her hand away from him and sat silent staring into the fog. Labar mentally cursed himself as something worse than an imbecile. How could it be supposed that this girl could have any interest in him in that way? If he had waited?

Penelope made an impetuous movement. He felt the rough sleeve of his old tweed coat about his neck. A cold face was near his own. He flung his arms about the girl and half laughing, half crying, she settled there in passive content. How long they remained thus he never knew. Night was adding a more sombre tinge to the fog, when she gently freed herself.

“I can’t believe it,” he whispered. “You the wife of just an ordinary policeman.”