CHAPTER XXIII

TWO PLUS ONE MAKES THREE With a swift movement of her supple body Vicky was on her knees beside the man. She slipped an arm under his head. Icy sleet encrusted his clothes. It clung in icicles to his hair and eyebrows. It matted his lashes and small Vandyke beard. From her throat came an astonished little cry of recognition. The man was Hugh McClintock. Over her shoulder she called to the big man at the table. “Bring me whisky and water—please.” He brought it, then closed the door. Awkwardly he stood above her. “Ha…