"Dorothy? Dorothy here? Where is she?"
"She is safe," he replied calmly.
"Where is she, where is she? Take me to her!" she cried, distractedly, going up to him and clasping her hands in humble supplication.
He shook off the hand which, in her maternal anxiety, she had laid on his arm. Lighting a cigarette, he gave a low laugh.
"Plenty of time. There's no hurry. You're not going yet."
Anxiously, she scrutinized his face, as if trying to read his meaning.
"She's going when I go, isn't she?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"That depends—on you."
"What do you mean?"