"Why are you here?"
"To be with you," he answered. "You know why."
She laughed mirthlessly.
"Better go back," she exclaimed. "I am no fit companion for any one
to-day. I came out to be alone."
A gust of wind came tearing up the hillside. They both struggled for
breath.
"I came," he said, "to find you. I was going to the house. Something has
happened which you ought to know."
She looked back towards the long white front of the house, and there was
terror in her eyes.
"Something is happening there," she muttered, "and I am afraid."
He took her gloveless hand. It was as cold as ice. She did not resist
his touch, but her fingers lay passively in his.
"Let me be your friend," he pleaded. "Never mind what has happened, or
what is going to happen. You are in trouble. Let me share it with you."
"You cannot," she answered. "You, nor any one else in the world. Let me
go! You don't understand!"
"I understand more than you think!" he answered.
She turned her startled eyes upon him.
"What do you mean?" she cried.
"I mean that the man whom we employed to trace the whereabouts of
Phyllis Poynton and her brother arrived from Paris last night," he
answered.
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